


The Shape Of My Heart

by Brenda



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU
Genre: 5+1 Things, 69 (Sex Position), Arthur & Clark Friendship, Blow Jobs, Bruce & Diana Friendship, Bruce Has Issues, Clark & Diana Friendship, Clark & Lois Friendship, Clark's Trying His Best, Competence Kink, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Kink Meme, M/M, Moving On, POV Clark Kent, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Post-Justice League (2017), Superbat Big Bang 2019, stubborn bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 09:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: Bruce is impossible, stubborn, willfully self-destructive, and so self-sacrificing it's a wonder he hasn't suffocated under the weight of it.  And Clark is stupidly, dizzyingly, crazy about him.Or, post-Justice League, five surprising and intriguing things Clark learns about Bruce (and the time he decides to do something with all of his new knowledge.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selofain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selofain/gifts), [CrocInCrocs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrocInCrocs/gifts), [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 Superbat Big Bang. 
> 
> Loosely based on the following [two](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=746707#cmt746707) [prompts](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=51923#cmt51923) in the DCEU Kink Meme (I blame Susie for this, not that anyone's asking - but it's ALL her fault :D):
> 
> _Inspired by Clark's "I knew you didn't bring me back because you liked me" and Bruce's answering "I don't not": Clark is convinced that Bruce still hates him. Bruce is incredibly bad at trying to communicate that he's actually growing rather fond of him._
> 
> And 
> 
> _Think slice of life fic - just Bruce and Clark learning small details about each other over time, maybe as a five times fics. Clark finding out about yet another amazing thing Bruce can do ("you speak how many languages???"), Bruce stalking Clark a bit to find out everything about him, from his favorite food to his tastes in music ... Or more intimate things like how Bruce shivers when you kiss him behind the ear, or how Clark loves having his hair stroked or things like that._
> 
> This is also the sequel to [The Five Stages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15915714), but you don't need to have read that fic to follow this one.

It turns out being resurrected is an easy process, from a legal standpoint.

Clark's not sure what he'd been expecting – certainly tons of red tape to wade through, maybe a painful and protracted court hearing, or at least an interrogation as to his supposed whereabouts the past year and why he'd waited so long to come forward. He'd steeled himself for any number of scenarios, including the one where he would have to come clean about being Superman, but, in the end, he simply receives a certified letter at the farm telling him that his death certificate had been expunged. There's even a form to file with his taxes. 

Pretty simple and clean, really. 

"You act like you're disappointed," Martha tells Clark, when she catches him frowning down at the papers. 

"I'm not," he says, but it doesn't sound convincing, even to himself. 

"Hmm," she replies, stripping off her gardening gloves as she steps to the sink. The water pipes creak slightly when the taps turn, and in the basement, there's the faint hiss of the boiler turning on. Outside, Clark can hear bird chatter, the leaves of the corn stalks rustling in the breeze – from the smell, rain will be on the way soon – and the tractor from the Neville farm two miles down the road.

The sounds of comfort, of home. Sounds he's missed, even in the void of death.

"I'm not disappointed," he insists, when his mom doesn't say anything else.

She finishes washing, and turns to him, towel in hand. The kitchen is infused with lazy afternoon light, tendrils of sun pushing past sheer curtains to warm the room with their glow. Dust motes dance in the air on an invisible breeze as the floorboards under them settle with a surrescent sigh. But, right now, Clark's not in the mood to appreciate the pastoral picture it paints.

"Let me ask you this, then," she says. "Are you upset because you wanted some big legal battle to get your mind off things, or because it's Bruce who's greasing the wheels?"

"Bruce? Bruce Wayne?" Clark sets down the papers, brows furrowing. He steadfastly ignores the other half of the question. "You think he had something to do with this?" 

There hadn't been a note with the letter, or any other indicator that Wayne Enterprises had been involved. Clark hasn't even gotten so much as a text from Bruce in weeks.

"Not unless you've got some fancy lawyer you haven't told me about. Or you have other friends with that sort of political pull."

Clark thinks about it. Lois has probably tried, in her own way, but there's only so much she can do to speed things along, even as renowned as she is. Diana and Arthur might be royalty in their respective realms, but neither of them would be of much help with Clark's situation. Barry's just a working stiff like Clark, and Victor maybe could have hacked the Metropolis courtroom servers to get Clark's death certificate reversed, but Clark's pretty sure voiding someone's death involves more than just changing a few keystrokes on a computer file. 

Which means, as Mom said, lawyers. Probably expensive ones. Which means someone with money to spare. Which means Bruce.

"Looks like I owe him another thank you," he muses, still frowning. It's been difficult enough worrying about how to pay Bruce back for saving the farm without another tally added to it. Not to mention the lingering question of _why_ Bruce has gone through so much trouble for Clark and his family in the first place.

"Invite him over for dinner," Martha says, patting his cheek as she moves towards the back door. "It'll be nice to see him again."

"Wait. See him _again_?" Clark's head shoots up. "Exactly how often was he here while I was...uh, gone?"

She tilts her head, thinking. "Hard to say. He, or sometimes that lovely Alfred of his, made a point of dropping in every few days to see if I needed anything."

"They did?" Clark asks, faintly. 

Every few _days_?? How is it that he's just now hearing about this? What else has Mom been keeping from him? What else has _Bruce_ been keeping from him?

"I kept telling them I was fine, that I didn't need anything, but they insisted. Mostly, they'd just stay for dinner and dessert – well, you know Bruce and his sweet tooth," she says, with a small shrug, like this is information Clark should have already been familiar with. "And after, they'd help me clean up, then take their leave. Of course, every time they dropped by, they'd bring a bottle of wine that I'd bet cost more than the farm."

Clark blinks, certain even his hearing has failed him. "Bruce Wayne...washed dishes?" He can't even wrap his head around it. Or Bruce enjoying sweets of any type. Although his Mom's mixed-berry pie has won quite a few contests.

(Bruce enjoying expensive wine, however, makes perfect sense. Clark may not know Bruce all that well, but he knows enough to know Bruce has exquisite taste in everything.)

"Every time," she answers, with a dimpled grin. "Although fixing the tractor and keeping the combine running was more up his alley. He's a tinkerer, that one, just like your father."

Bruce – Bruce _Wayne_ , billionaire scion and part-time vigilante – doing chores around the farm. Working on the persnickety combine engine or the old-as-dirt tractor. It's a shame Clark's already sitting, because he feels a deep need to sink into a chair right about now. 

"That's...that was very nice of him," he says, in a high-pitched voice he barely recognizes as his.

"He missed you." Her smile this time is tremulous around the edges. "We all did, but Bruce took your death real hard. I don't think he's got all that many friends – ones who know who he is, at any rate."

Clark nods, although his brain is racing a mile a second. He and Bruce aren't _friends_ – not even close to it. And certainly not before his death. (If he still has the odd nightmare about a sickly green glowing light and the heel of Bruce's boot choking his windpipe, well, he's sure no one could blame him.) 

So, yes, not friends. They're not even what anyone would call work friends, either. And certainly his mom had to have known that – she knows everyone he knows, including all his old co-workers at The Planet. But here she is, acting like he and Bruce are bosom buddies, and like Bruce had any right to mourn Clark or any right to come by and check up on her and help fix things around the place.

What on earth had Bruce _told_ her while he'd been gone that would have made her think they were ever anything other than two people who'd tried to kill each other before saving the world together a few times?

"Anyway," Martha continues, "it'll be nice to see him again. Tell him he's always welcome, whenever he has time."

"I'll, uh, be sure to mention it," Clark says, staring into the distance long after the screen door's banged shut behind her. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Clark's still puzzling over everything a week later. He knows what Bruce has done for him is a gift – one he's not stubborn enough to look in the mouth, not when it means he doesn't have to jump through so many hoops to start getting his regular life back on track – but it still begs the question of _why_. 

Why would Bruce go through all that trouble? Why would Bruce care about Clark's legal status? Why would he have made a point of visiting his mom or staying in touch with Lois or saving the farm or helping to fix the _tractor_ , for Pete's sake, or...or anything else? Guilt over his part in Clark's death can only explain away so much.

In the end, he knows there's only one person who can give him the answers he seeks. 

It's far too early for a visit when Clark decides he's had enough of tying himself in knots, but he flies out to Gotham, anyway. He can always hang around and wait for Bruce to wake up (surely, he sleeps in most mornings, given his nocturnal activities) – 

But when he gets to the lake house and touches his feet to the graveled driveway, it's to find Bruce on his haunches in front of a motorcycle, with a wrench in his hand. He's stripped to the waist, wearing just a pair of worn, grease-stained jeans and equally grease-stained boots, which is so far from Bruce's usual appearance that Clark momentarily wonders if he's at the right house.

"Clark," Bruce says evenly, not even bothering to look away from the engine. "This is a surprise."

"Uh, well." Clark swallows awkwardly. 

There are a wealth of scars raised along the broad, muscled expanse of Bruce's back. Most of them are faded white with time, but a few are still angry and red, and some are far too close to his kidneys and vulnerable spine. His skin is sun-bronzed and sweat-slick. Clark can hear the steady metronome beat of Bruce's heart, can hear the healthy rush of Bruce's blood coursing its way through arteries and veins – but he still has the inexplicable urge to run his hands along Bruce's skin. Just to assure himself that Bruce is alive. That those numerous injuries hadn't dealt Bruce a mortal blow.

The human body is equipped to handle only so much trauma before it gives out, isn't it?

Bruce finally turns his head and quirks one of his maddening half-smiles Clark's way. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but is there a reason you're here, or –"

"You visited my mom while I was gone," Clark blurts out, not what he'd meant to say at all.

Bruce's entire face shutters, a mask slipping over those aristocratic, patrician features, so smooth and quick that a normal human would have missed it. "Simply paying a debt," Bruce says, and even his voice is different. Measured, toneless, the easy warmth of only a moment ago vanished, as if it had never been.

"Debt?" Clark takes a step closer, then another. "What possible debt could you have to my mother? You already saved her life, then you go and save her farm, bring her son back from the –"

"Was there an actual question in all of that?" Bruce asks, polite and oh-so-distant. No inflection whatsoever in his tone. The mask still firmly in place.

Part of Clark wants to push, to see if he can get that façade to crack, but he's got the feeling more qualified people than him have tried and spectacularly failed. And he doesn't know enough about Bruce to have the faintest idea how to even _start_ to gain the proper leverage. 

"No," he says, finally breaking the silence, "but I get the impression you wouldn't give me a straight answer even if I had one."

"You're right, I wouldn't," Bruce agrees, with a small, genuine smile that mercifully cracks the veneer, and softens that ridiculously chiseled jawline. Clark counts it as a victory.

"So..." Clark finally tears his gaze from Bruce's face and gestures at the bike, determined to get back to some middle ground. He doesn't even entertain the idea of asking his original question – it can wait another day. "Did you want any help...with, uh, whatever it is you're doing?" 

He's messed with enough engines in his life that he's comfortable with the offer.

But Bruce just shakes his head, the deceptively boyish smile still in place. "It's nothing major. Just tuning it up for Barry so it'll pass emissions," he says.

"Why would Barry need a motorcycle when he can –" Clark makes a motion with his hands "– you know, uh, _whoosh_. Wherever he wants to go."

Bruce huffs good-naturedly and straightens to his feet, oddly graceful for such a large, imposing man. Clark wonders if he could give lessons in how he manages to do it. Most of the time, Clark feels like a bull inside a china shop, far too large and clumsy for his own skin. So very aware of all of his strength, and the damage it can do. "I don't know," Bruce replies. "Why did you always take the subway to work when you can fly?"

"That's...a good point," Clark admits, his throat inexplicably tight, as he watches Bruce place both hands to his lower back and arch, tilting his face to the morning rays. The light tan of his skin contrasts with the dusting of fine dark hairs trailing from his sternum to below his waistband. Clark's pretty sure Apollo is supposed to be blond, seeing as how he's the Sun God and all, but he'd be willing to bet any painter or artist worth their salt would agree with him that Bruce is the epitome of Apollo right now. Luminescent. Larger than life.

"Anyway, since you're here, I should show you the schematics for the new meeting room for the League," Bruce beckons, walking towards the front door, and Clark, feeling like nothing so much as a helpless puppet, drawn by Bruce's invisible strings, follows in his wake. 

The lake house interior looks more like a showroom than an actual home – with a cathedral high ceiling and beautifully rendered walnut floorboards, tastefully expensive furniture, and glass walls with an unobstructed view of the lake and hills beyond. But there's no personality to either the furnishings or the art, no hint a real person even lives here, nothing at all of _Bruce_ – except for the wide array of well-read books on the polished shelves above the fireplace. Clark peeks at the spines to see the titles – the subjects range from psychology to quantum mechanics, and more than a few are in Russian, Mandarin, Pashto, German, and a few other languages besides. 

"Have you read all of these?" he asks, curious.

Bruce laughs under his breath, as if at a private joke, and nods. "Reporters are all alike, it seems," he says, cryptically, then heads towards the back of the house. Clark once again follows, his steps slower. 

"I came up with a few schematics we can look over..." Bruce's voice carries down the long hallway, but Clark's attention is on the painting hanging just outside the bedroom. It's not at all like the ones in the living and dining room, with their impersonal cold lines and deliberate obtuseness. This one is just a simple abstract of a seaside village, normally not Clark's style (he's a classicist at heart), but the colors are so bold and vibrant that Clark can't tear his eyes away. Other than the books, it's the only hint of personality in the entire house. 

But, unlike the books, there's something sensuous and evocative about the painting that calls to Clark like a primal instinct. He can't even say why – he'd grown up in Kansas, about as far from the ocean as it gets. And yet, this painting makes him ache for home in a way he can't define. 

"Clark, what're you doing?" Bruce walks back in his direction and stops beside Clark. "Something catch your eye?" 

Clark nods, itching to touch the oils, to run his fingertips along the layers for himself. His skin feels too tight, an unfamiliar longing tugging at his gut. "It's..." He stops. He's not sure he could describe the cascade of emotions if he had even Bruce's extensive vocabulary.

"It's...?" Bruce prompts, when Clark falls silent.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen anything like it," Clark offers, ineffectual. Once again the clumsy oaf. "Who's the artist?"

"I am."

"You...that's you?" Clark points to the painting in question. " _You_ painted that? Seriously?"

"I do have hobbies, you know." Bruce says it lightly, but the stillness of his posture belies his relaxed tone.

"I know that, I just..." Clark shrugs, sheepish. "I guess I just always thought your hobbies were more centered around being The Batman."

"Being able to quickly sketch things is a useful skill," Bruce admits, with another one of those oddly graceful shrugs.

"I knew it," Clark replies, teasing, but his gaze is once again drawn to the painting. "This is remarkable, Bruce. You have a gift."

"I'm not so sure about that," Bruce says, with a self-deprecating grin. He claps Clark on the shoulder, companionable, and heads back down the hallway, his voice echoing off the walls. "It's only hanging up because Alfred is fond of it, for some reason."

If Alfred sees anything in the bold swirl of oils like Clark does, fond is entirely too mild of a word.

***


	3. Chapter 3

The painting sticks with him. He can't even say why, necessarily – it really _isn't_ his usual style – but he finds himself thinking about it at odd moments. The bold colors, the kinetic energy, that inexplicable feeling of home...picturing Bruce standing at an easel, barefoot and paint-spattered, with a brush between his teeth as he contemplates an empty canvas. 

Bruce Wayne, artist. No matter how hard Clark tries, he can't quite make the pieces fit. He knows Bruce is...well, complex, for lack of a better word. Knows that he could spend another decade at least just trying to peel back all of those hidden layers and still not scratch the surface of what makes a man like Bruce tick. But even knowing that, Clark still can't find a way to reconcile the cold-hearted vigilante who used to brand his victims – the man who'd hunted Clark down with ruthless precision and a terrible fury – with the sort of romantic core it would take to create such an evocative, passionate work of art.

Bruce is a mystery, alright. And the reporter side of Clark can't help but want to solve it.

***

He's still mulling over the painting and his strange reaction to it when Lois asks him to come out to Metropolis for a visit. She'd moved out of their old apartment while he'd been gone, and while he's still not used to the new place (or to the idea that she'd moved on without him), it's starting to grow on him. And the loft-style floor plan and the antique-style windows, with their spectacular view of the bay, suits Lois to a tee. Not to mention, the clutter of books and notebooks crammed into every nook and cranny is certainly familiar enough, something he remembers very well from when they'd lived together.

"Did you know Bruce could draw?"

Lois looks up from the laundry scattered across her bed. "Did I miss something?" she asks. Her hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun, bright auburn curls escaping to frame her face. She's in an old, stretched out tee and sleep shorts, with fuzzy socks on her feet. As always, he's humbled by the beauty of her – both inside and out. 

He steps into the bedroom, sheepish. "Sorry, I just...I know you two kept in touch while I was...away...and, well, anyway, I was just wondering if he mentioned it is all."

She puts the shirt down in the basket and frowns slightly. "Why are you asking about Bruce?"

"Just curious, I guess." He picks up the discarded shirt and starts folding it, even though he knows she'll just redo it later. Lo's always been very particular about how clothes get folded. She's always been picky about a lot of things, actually. It's one of the reasons Clark loves her so much. "Did you know he used to come by to see Mom at the farm?"

"Yes." Her smile is fragile when she nods. "They have a soft spot for each other. It's pretty sweet."

"So I'm beginning to realize," Clark murmurs. How can it be that so much had happened in only a year? No time at all for so much to have changed.

"But, to answer your question, no, I didn't know he could draw," Lois continues, then an indecipherable expression crosses over her face. "We...things between me and Bruce are...I guess the best word for it is complicated."

Welcome to the club, Clark wants to tell her. He's not sure Bruce has had an _un_ complicated relationship with anyone in his life. "Right, I'm...this has to be weird for you. Talking about...then. When I was...you know," he ends, inwardly cursing himself for making things worse. 

He still doesn't know how to bring up his missing time in a way that's not horrifically awkward for everyone involved. Or why it's so hard for him to say _dead_ when talking about it. Because that's what he'd been. Dead. He'd died. He'd died, and Bruce – with no small amount of help from the other members of the League – had brought him back to life. But only because they'd needed his help to save the world, not because they'd missed him. Certainly not because _Bruce_ had missed him, no matter what his mom says.

"Awkward's a pretty good word for it," Lois answers, then pats at the free space on the bed. "Come have a seat."

He does, looking up at her. The hazy light shining through the blinds has turned her hair into a fiery halo, as fierce and alive as her spirit. "What's up?"

"Well, the thing is...I didn't just invite you here for a visit," she says, looking far too uncomfortable for Clark's peace of mind. "I mean, I'm happy to see you, of course, but I had another reason for asking you to come by."

"Alright," he says, gently. 

She exhales slowly, as if centering herself. "I just...I have a couple of things to say, and I need you to listen to me."

"I always listen to you, Lo," he replies. "I may not agree with you, but I always listen."

She smiles, this time inexplicably sad, and caresses his jaw with light fingers before curling her hand into a fist. "I've had over a year to...to try to make peace with what happened. To losing you. To the reality of the rest of my life without you. And I thought..." She stumbles over the words, then regroups after another long breath. "I really thought that I was making some sort of headway. But then you came back, and – I'm not blaming you, I'm not, I would much rather have you alive, you know that – but I can't keep pretending that things are the same. That _I'm_ the same." She slowly opens her hand. In her palm, the diamond of the engagement ring glimmers mockingly bright. 

Instantly, he knows what she's doing. Knows why she'd invited him here. And every molecule in his body freezes. "Lo, please –"

"This is my official answer," she says, regretful, but steadfast. "I love you, Clark. I love you so much. I'll always love you, but I'm not the person you were going to give this to, and I'm not sure I'll ever get back to being her again."

"I don't care," he says, pleading, although he knows it's a moot point. Lois wouldn't have taken this step if she hadn't been absolutely sure it was the right one. And as hard as he listens, he can only hear weary conviction in her voice. No hint of wavering. 

Still, he has to try. "Neither of us is the same," he tells her. "We can figure out who we're going to be together."

"Maybe we can, but not like this." She drops the ring into his palm, gentle, yet resolute. "And, who knows what the future might hold, but it's not fair for either of us to try to cling to something that isn't there anymore."

" _Please_ don't do this." His voice cracks at the end, and his heart cracks right alongside it.

"I'm sorry, I truly am." She brushes a kiss to his cheek. "But you need to understand, when you died, something inside me broke. And getting you back hasn't magically fixed it," she says, with a helpless shrug. "It's...well, if I'm honest, it's only made things worse. Not that that's your fault, either. None of this is. Which I know doesn't make it better, but it's true. This isn't anything you did."

He curls his fist over the ring, trying, in vain, to dig his nails into his palm. Tries to focus on something, _anything_ , that's not helpless, impotent rage. All of his terrible and awesome powers, and it's not enough to stop the best thing in his life from walking out the door. It hadn't been enough to stop the inexorable passage of time while he'd lain underground, frozen in place. Lex Luthor had managed to steal so much from him, even in defeat. 

"You're wrong, this _is_ my fault," he finally says. "If I hadn't been so hellbent on doing everything my way, if I'd let you in from the start –"

"You sound like Bruce," Lois interrupts, and it's clear from her tone it's not a compliment. "And it's just as much hubris coming from you as it did him."

He reels back, stricken. "Hubris?"

"If you want to wallow in your misery and blame yourself instead of putting it where it belongs, be my guest. But I'm not going to enable you," she says, a pointed jab. "I'm too damaged to be in a place to help you through yours." 

"I'm _fine_ ," he assures her, for what feels like the hundredth time. They've had this discussion ad nauseum since he's been back. "I'm simply acknowledging my responsibility. I was at fault, as much as anyone."

The looks she levels at him is disbelieving. "You know you need to talk to someone about what happened to you."

He raises an eyebrow. "Who would I even talk to?" 

Who out there would even remotely have any context for what he's gone through? What therapist would even be qualified to handle both Superman and Clark Kent and their respective issues?

"I don't know." She sighs and sits beside him, lacing their fingers together. "This isn't me kicking you out of my life, I hope you know that. I'll always be here for you. And, I know it's a cliché, but we'll always be friends."

"I know." 

And he _does_ know, that's the worst part. He knows she's right – too much has changed in the last year, too much is different, and neither of them is the person they used to be. The life he used to have...it's not coming back, no matter how many strings Bruce's lawyers pull. No amount of money and power can buy back the time he'd lost. And being angry and resentful over the unfairness of it all won't do any good either. It's time for him to do what everyone else had done while he'd been gone – move on. 

It's easier said than done, of course, but he'll try. He has to. He doesn't have a choice.

He swallows, pushes the grief and rage down until he thinks he can speak without choking on it. "Would it...do you think I could...I just need..."

As always, she seems to read his mind, because she just opens her arms for him to fall into, clinging as tight to her as he can, even as he can feel her leaving him, the (second) fastest man in the world, behind.

***

Later, he could never say what prompted him to fly to Gotham. 

He should have flown back to Smallville, if only to tell Mom the news. But the second he'd left Lois, after more hugs and tears and assurances by the both of them that they'd still be a part of each others' lives, he'd found himself flying over the bay instead. 

And searching for one particular heartbeat among the city's millions.

He lights down next to Bruce on top of an old building in the heart of the Stews; Bruce doesn't even turn from where he's scanning the streets below with a pair of high-tech binoculars.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asks, by way of greeting. With the modulator on, his voice is low, menacing, meant to evoke fear.

"I just..." Clark rubs a hand over his face. He's so tired he wants to curl up right where he is and not move for about a decade. That should be long enough. "I don't know, actually."

Bruce spares him the briefest of glances. The white around the eyes of his mask seems to pierce right through Clark's defenses. "Go home, Superman," Bruce says, quietly. "Gotham's no place for someone like you."

Clark wants to ask what Bruce means by that, but then he hears it – small, terrified whimpers four blocks over. "B, there's –"

But Bruce is already moving, grappling hook out as he swings between buildings, his cape billowing behind him. Clark follows, allowing Bruce the lead, and hovers behind when Bruce drops into a filthy alleyway next to an abandoned shop.

There's a girl – seven or maybe eight, it's hard to tell as malnourished as she is – hunched behind a dumpster, her bony arms wrapped around equally skinny legs. Her clothing is torn, ragged, and far too thin for such a cold night. The whimpering Clark had heard had most likely been her teeth chattering.

She looks up with wide eyes and licks dry, cracked lips. "B-Batman?" she whispers, in a dehydrated croak. She doesn't even glance in Clark's direction.

Bruce switches off the modulator and crouches down in front of her. "Shh, it's okay, you're okay," he croons, in the softest voice Clark's ever heard. He watches, stunned into paralysis, as Bruce holds out a gloved hand. "You're safe now."

She wastes no time scrambling to him, and Clark is stunned yet again as Bruce cradles the child close to his chest. He looks on, mystified, as she clings back, heedless of the kevlar and hard shell of the Batman suit.

It's not that Bruce is letting the girl hear his normal voice. Or that his entire stance has changed, shifting impeccably from hunter to protector. It's the _gentleness_ in both gestures that throws Clark for a loop. He's not sure gentle is a word he's ever associated with Batman (or Bruce for that matter), yet the child seems to think nothing of climbing into his arms like it's the safest place on earth. Like The Batman is a cherished friend, rather than a fierce, fearsome creation meant to terrify criminals into submission.

"I'm scared," the girl says, in a trembling lisp. "Can you sing to me, Batman?"

"Of course," Bruce replies, without hesitation. "What would you like to hear?"

"Mama always used to sing _Arrorró mi niño_ at bedtime. Do you know it?"

"I do." Then Bruce opens his mouth, and Clark...well.

He tips beyond stunned, and into a new level entirely. 

Bruce's voice is the purest tenor, perfectly pitched and mellifluous. He wouldn't be out of place on a stage as a soloist performing with a world-renowned chorus. But it's not Bruce's technique that freezes Clark in his tracks – although it's flawless, of course – it's the _emotion_ ringing in every softly sung verse. Clark can hear Bruce's heartache and loneliness, can hear his regret and sorrow, even though he doesn't understand any of the words. And the girl...she just sits there, holding tight, her face hidden under the folds of Bruce's cape. Utterly still and quiet, her hiccupping breaths evening out until they're nice and slow.

Instead, Clark is the one holding his breath, enthralled and enchanted, too afraid to even twitch, lest he break the spell Bruce is weaving. Clark wonders if this is what the Pied Piper's rats had felt – that same helpless yearning, that same adoring raptness and willingness to follow as long as the music never stopped.

When Bruce finally ends the song, it feels as though the rest of the city falls silent with him. Clark can't hear anything over the stutter-drumming of his own heart beating in his chest, too loud and too discordant, in contrast to the melody he's just heard. The girl's fallen asleep, slumped against Bruce's side, as if she trusts him, even in slumber, to help her fight the dragons she can't face alone.

Bruce gathers her close and gets to his feet in one silent, fluid motion, and directs Clark to follow him with one tiny tilt of his head. They slip through the alley, Bruce's confident steps taking them through a myriad of twists and turns until they get to the back of a brick building, and a set of concrete steps leading to a nondescript door.

"Go in and ask for Dr. Thompkins," Bruce murmurs, barely moving his lips.

"Where are we?" Clark asks, just as quietly.

"A friend's."

Like that's supposed to tell him anything. Still, there's no sense pressing the issue when there's a child who needs help – and Clark is in Bruce's territory, after all – so he simply nods and steps inside the building.

It's a medical facility of some type – clean, well-kept, the equipment all in top-notch shape. Clark does a quick scan of the floors and sees at least two dozen patients, some of them children, being tended to by the staff – and the contrast to the grime and grit outside is more than a little dizzying. How on earth is this place able to operate in this area of town? 

A staff member halts in front of him and gives him a quick once-over. "I thought you were supposed to be impervious to injury," she says, frowning. 

"I am. I mean, I’m not..." Belatedly, he realizes she thinks he's here for treatment. "I'm looking for Dr. Thompkins."

"Shoulda figured." She shrugs and points at the staircase. "She's making the rounds on the second floor."

"Thank you."

The second floor is a recovery ward with more beds and convalescents, and a small, wiry woman, her silver-grey hair pulled back into a bun, is busy jotting down notes into a file. Clark steps into the room, smiles reassuringly at a few of the patients and their wide-eyed stares, and stops by the woman's side.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Are you Dr. Thompkins?"

"That's me." She looks up and, to her credit, doesn't even bat an eyelash upon seeing Superman standing in front of her. But then, Clark supposes, she works with The Batman, so she's probably used to costumed heroes.

"Superman, how can I help?" she asks, no preamble.

"I have...uh...Batman sent me?" he says, unaccountably sheepish. Superman is supposed to be a decisive voice of reason and hope, and yet, something about the doctor's demeanor or posture makes Clark feel like he's a kid again, fidgeting in front of his mother. 

Her reply is deceptively mild. "He did, did he?"

Clark nods. "He's out on the steps with a girl, young, homeless maybe. We found her in an alleyway not too far from here."

"And of course, he can't just bring her inside like a normal person. That boy, I swear..." She shakes her head as she grabs a first aid kit and heads down the stairs. Clark follows, more than a little confused.

"You and The Batman know each other?" he asks.

She snorts inelegantly. "You could say that," she replies, and opens the back door. 

Bruce glances up, and almost visibly relaxes upon seeing her. "Dr. Thompkins."

She sighs, and gives him an exasperated look. "You know you don't have to keep skulking around the back every time you bring someone here."

"It's not wise for you to be seen with me."

"This is a safe space," she replies, in what is clearly an old argument, then gestures at the girl still in Bruce's arms. "Is she injured?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Some minor bruising around her wrists and ankles, and she's likely malnourished, but she seems healthy otherwise."

"Well, bring her on in. You know where the rooms are." 

Clark doesn't need to stay – Bruce and Dr. Thompkins have things well in hand – but whatever had driven him to Gotham in the first place still seems to be in effect, because he finds himself accompanying Bruce to one of the empty exam rooms. 

The girl rouses as Bruce gently sits her on the table and her face freezes in fear until she sees Bruce standing beside her. "Where are we?" she asks, her voice trembling.

"My clinic," Dr. Thompkins says, with a reassuring smile. "You're safe here."

"Dr. Thompkins is an old friend," Bruce tells the girl. "I trust her."

"Okay," the girl says, but she still scoots closer to Bruce. He simply holds out a hand for her to take, and she grasps it tightly while Dr. Thompkins gently examines her and asks her a few questions. Her name is Nina, she's been on the streets for about two weeks, after escaping 'a cage' (human trafficking, Clark surmises, and his vision goes red), and she's not sure what happened to her mother. 

"I'll find her," Bruce promises (and Clark has no doubts he'll keep his word, no matter what). "But in the meantime, I'd like for you to stay here and let Dr. Thompkins look after you. If that's okay with you."

Nina thinks about it for a second, then shrugs and nods. "Okay. If you promise to come visit me tomorrow."

"Of course," Bruce replies, without hesitation.

"We have an empty room down the hall, next to my office," Dr. Thompkins says. "She can stay there."

Bruce looks down at Nina. "Ready to get some sleep?"

"Will you tuck me in?"

"It would be my pleasure," Bruce tells her, then sweeps her in his arms and out the door. 

Dr. Thompkins glances at Clark once they're alone. "So you two are working together now," she observes.

"Yeah, I guess...I mean, yes ma'am," Clark replies, resisting the urge to straighten to his full height. Honestly, she and his mom could be cut from the same cloth. "Sometimes." Then he nods towards the door. "I had no idea he was so good with children."

"Bruce has always been good with kids," she replies. "Even back when he was one himself."

"You...you know who he is?" Clark asks, flummoxed. Just when he'd thought the night couldn't get any weirder.

"I better," Dr. Thompkins says, amused. "I'm his godmother. Known him all his life."

"Oh." 

Clark rocks back on his heels. Godmother. Bruce has a godmother. Bruce has people in his life other than Alfred. Once again, Clark's reminded about how little he knows about Bruce or his past.

Bruce comes back into the room a few minutes later, and shuts the door. "She's resting."

"Good," Dr. Thompkins says. "We'll take good care of her, you know that."

"I do," Bruce replies. "How are you doing on money and supplies?"

"We have everything we need," she says. "I'll let you know if that changes." Then she puts a hand on Bruce's arm. "You should go home and get some rest. You look tired."

Clark wonders how she can tell through the mask and the armor, but Bruce just smiles. "You say that every time I see you, Leslie."

"And it's always true." Then she turns to Clark. "And since you two are a team now, I'm making it your responsibility to make sure he stops pushing himself so hard."

"Uh...well...see, ma'am, the thing is..." Clark stammers, floundering yet again under the force of that stare. It's not a feeling he's used to while wearing this suit.

"Oh, we're not –" Bruce starts, but she pokes his chest, right over the bat symbol.

"No arguing," she states, sternly. "Doctor's orders. Now get out of here and go home."

Clark half expects Bruce to have a snappy comeback, but he simply nods. "I'll see you tomorrow night," he says, instead, and heads out of the building.

Clark starts to follow, then stops and turns back to Dr. Thompkins. "Um...thank you," he says, still feeling out of his depth. "For everything that you're doing. And being there. For Bruce, I mean."

She grins, quick and light. "Back atcha."

When he gets outside, Bruce has already disappeared into the night, but Clark easily finds him atop yet another high-rise, this one belonging to Wayne Enterprises. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink," Bruce says, the moment Clark lands on the roof. "Feel like joining me?"

"Uh, sure?" Of all the scenarios he could have drawn up for tonight, a genial invitation to join Bruce Wayne for a drink – in Gotham, no less – would have never even entered his wildest thoughts.

There's an elevator tucked behind the air-conditioning unit. Bruce presses his palm against a side panel, and they both get in, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder. Clark has to physically restrain himself from fidgeting. He's never been terribly fond of small spaces, and the feeling's gotten worse since he's been back. Not that he's examining the reasons why all that closely. (Not that he needs to.)

"So, uh, where are we going?" he asks, when the silence gets too thick.

"My office," Bruce replies, and the doors slide open to reveal a large, opulent room, with a massive mahogany desk dominating the space, an equally large leather sofa along one wall, a full bar running along the wall opposite, and thick Persian rugs on the floor. It looks exactly like the office of someone who doesn't actually do any work, which, Clark reasons, is probably the image Bruce wants to maintain. CEO in name only, a figurehead more interested in his pet charities and the next party than running a multi-national, multi-billion dollar conglomerate.

Bruce slides his cowl off with a sigh, and sets it on the desk, followed by the gauntlets. His dark hair is sweaty and flattened on one side, and Clark can now see the lines of fatigue creasing Bruce's forehead and around his eyes. Dr. Thompkins had been right – Bruce clearly hasn't been getting enough sleep.

Bruce walks to the bar and pulls out a crystal decanter filled with a rich amber liquid, splashes a generous amount into an equally expensive looking tumbler. "Is whiskey alright or do you want something else?" he asks. "I imagine alcohol wouldn't affect you, but –"

"It doesn't, but I like the taste," Clark replies. 

Bruce pours another tumbler, and hands it out to Clark. "Cheers," he says, tapping their glasses together, and taking a healthy swig.

Clark takes a smaller sip – he tastes peat, oak, apricots, a hint of almonds, and sherry – and smiles to himself. It tastes handcrafted, rare, and very expensive, and exactly like a scotch Bruce Wayne would have in his personal bar. "So, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Knock yourself out," Bruce says, after another healthy swallow. Then he sets the glass on the desk and unhooks his cape from the suit. 

He _wants_ to ask about Dr. Thompkins, about Bruce's relationship to her, how long she's known about Bruce being The Batman, how long she's had the clinic, why Bruce had lurked by the back door instead of using the front entrance, how well Dr. Thompkins had known Bruce's parents... But, this invitation for a drink aside, he's still not sure where he and Bruce stand with each other. And he has no desire to see Bruce close himself off again. 

So he chooses a more innocuous question. "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

Bruce pauses in the middle of unbuckling his boots. "Sing like what?"

"Like you did for that little girl."

Bruce purses his lips. "That wasn't anything special. I'm just glad I remembered the song is all."

"You...but you..." Clark abruptly shuts his mouth. How can Bruce not know how beautiful his voice is?

"Comforting children is sometimes part of the job," Bruce continues, bending back to his task. "I would have thought you, of all people, would know that."

It's not the same, Clark wants to answer. No child has _ever_ trusted him like that. "I normally get the wide-eyed stares," he finally says, with a self-effacing shrug. "Sometimes crying."

"Hmm," Bruce replies, with a nod that could mean any number of things, then unstraps the chest piece. The compression tank he's wearing underneath is soaked through with sweat, plasters to his body like a second skin.

"What are you doing?" Clark asks, although it's pretty obvious.

"Bruce Wayne has to make an appearance at a party in thirty minutes. Just late enough to be fashionable, of course." The pants fall next, leaving Bruce clad in just the tank top and a pair of very skimpy briefs. His thighs and calves are thick with muscle, and roped with scars. Clark idly wonders what his workout routine has to be like, to get so large, yet remain so agile and light on his feet.

"Oh, I guess I should..." Clark sets his glass on the bar. "Y'know, uh, leave you to it..."

"You had a reason for coming to Gotham tonight and seeking me out. I'd like to hear it," Bruce says, as he peels out of the tank and briefs and strides towards the bathroom. 

Clark blinks, his mouth unaccountably dry. He's not sure he's ever been that comfortable parading around naked in front of anyone, especially someone he doesn't really know. But Bruce, as he often does, seems to delight in doing the unexpected.

And, Clark muses, it's not like Bruce has anything to be ashamed of. Aesthetically speaking, he is one of the most attractively put together people on the planet. Once again, Clark's reminded of Apollo, of Greek Gods and perfection of form.

Bruce pokes his head outside the door. Steam is already billowing around him, curling the ends of his hair around his ears. "Were you planning on telling me or were you just going to stand there and drink my bar dry?" he asks, lips curving up in a lightning-quick grin.

"Oh, um." Belatedly, Clark realizes Bruce had meant for Clark to follow him. Into the bathroom. While Bruce is...well. 

_Okay_. Okay, he can do this. He's a reporter, after all, or he used to be, and reporters adapt to their surroundings, right? 

Bruce is already in the shower by the time Clark steps into the room. The glass door is shut, but Clark can easily see Bruce through it – even without the benefit of x-ray vision – his face turned up to the spray as he rubs a bar of soap across his chest.

"Well?" Bruce prompts, his voice somewhat muffled by the water.

Right, um, Bruce wants to talk. Correction, Clark thinks. Bruce wants _him_ to talk. 

"I guess I'm here because...I just needed someone to talk to. Someone who's not Mom," Clark clarifies, leaning gingerly against the counter. He feels terribly clumsy and out of place in his suit, but it's not like he's got a change of clothing on him. And he definitely wouldn't feel comfortable changing in front of Bruce – this already feels too weirdly intimate.

"So it's personal," Bruce says, as he bends to wash his groin and legs. "Is this about getting your job back at The Planet, because I've got a timetable in place for –"

"Lois broke up with me," Clark blurts out, squeezing his eyes shut. (Not that it helps - he can still hear everything – from the soap rubbing along rough skin, to Bruce's measured breaths, to that ever-present steady heartbeat.) "And, uh, I guess...I don't know, really, I just...needed to tell someone."

Bruce is silent for another handful of moments as he rinses off. Then he shuts off the shower and slides the door open. And Clark, unable to stop himself, takes a peek. Rivulets of water cascade along Bruce's shoulders and arms, across the sharp cut of his hips, trickling over the hair across his chest and the thicker hair at his groin. (And, well, he definitely has nothing to be ashamed of there, either.) 

Clark's fingers twitch at his sides. He can't stop staring. Bruce is simultaneously the most fragile-looking and strongest-looking man he's ever seen in his life. All that muscle buttressed against all of those scars...the dichotomy is fascinating. And entirely inappropriate to be thinking about.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, softly, and he sounds like he means it.

"Yeah," Clark murmurs, finally tearing his gaze away from Bruce's impossibly perfect body. "Me too." 

Bruce grabs a towel from the railing and starts drying himself off with clean, economical movements. "I can't claim to know her as well as you, of course, but she's...she's gone through a lot the past year. Maybe she just needs some time."

"Right." Clark nods through a clogged throat. "Time." 

The one thing he has plenty of now – and the one thing that had been stolen from him by Lex Luthor and Doomsday. The thing Bruce had given back to him, at considerable expense. And even if it had been out of a desperate need to save the Earth, it doesn't mean Clark can't be appreciative that Bruce had done it. As weird as things have been the last couple of months, he's still grateful to his core that he's alive.

He's not even aware Bruce has moved until Bruce is right in front of him, standing so close Clark has to tilt his head up slightly to look him in the eyes. Which is a little disconcerting. It's not that he's exceptionally tall, it's just...he's not used to looking up at other men. Especially not given that he can float above them. Not that he's remotely thinking about that now.

Bruce claps him on the shoulder, kneading tense tissue. He'd have made an excellent masseuse, Clark thinks wildly. "Do you need a place to stay, or money or...?"

"Oh no, nothing like that." What must Bruce think of him, to offer. How pathetic must he seem to someone so self-assured and self-sufficient. Maybe that's why Lois had ended things – why would she keep herself tethered to someone who can't seem to figure out what to do with the second chance that has been handed to him on a silver platter. "I'm still at the farm. I've been staying there since I, uh...well..."

"Was forcibly brought back from the dead?" Bruce finishes, with a wry smile that erases the weariness from his face.

"Well, it's not like I would have refused if anyone _could_ have asked," Clark answers, just as wry. "Being alive definitely beats the alternative. Not that I...remember much. About said alternative."

Bruce drops his hand, but doesn't move. Clark can hear the blood rushing through his arteries, can feel the warmth of Bruce's skin, the hum of energy crackling in his bones. "You'll let me know if you need anything?" Bruce asks. "You or Mrs. Kent?"

It takes him a second to remember the thread of the conversation.

"Well, there is one thing," he says, his tongue clumsy and thick in his mouth. "Mom mentioned...you, um, used to...uh, dinner?"

"Name the date and time." Bruce smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling, like Clark's fumbling attempts at words amuse him, then walks back into the office. He opens a cabinet next to the bar and pulls out a crisply pressed tuxedo and polished pair of shoes. 

"Doesn't it get tiring?" Clark asks, as Bruce quickly pulls on his pants and a starched-white shirt. 

"Tiring?"

"Juggling all of this?" Clark clarifies. "Being Bruce Wayne, being The Batman, all the lying and subterfuge and duplicity?"

Maybe if he can figure out how Bruce seems to manage it all so seamlessly, he can start to put those pieces of himself back together again. Right now, he feels like a million jagged edges chafing against each other, all jockeying for the same tiny bit of space.

"I imagine it's not so different than when you were juggling being a mild-mannered reporter and being Superman," Bruce comments, looping the cravat around until it's in a perfect bow-tie. He slips into his shoes, shrugs on his jacket and runs his fingers carelessly through his hair – and just like that, he's Bruce Wayne, billionaire wastrel playboy. The transformation is a little dizzying.

"I should, uh...do you need me to drop you off anywhere?" Clark offers, feeling ridiculous even as he says it.

But Bruce just chuckles lightly. "As entertaining as it would be to show up with you as my plus-one, we should probably keep Bruce Wayne and Superman as far apart as we can. We wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

"Wrong idea?"

"Lois Lane's already been used by enemies of Superman's," Bruce explains, as he buttons the cuffs of his sleeves. "I don't think giving anyone more ammunition against you is wise."

When Bruce puts it like that... "Right, of course." 

"But I appreciate the thought." Bruce moves to the front elevator, then pivots to face Clark. The look on his face is somber, those large brown eyes piercing right to Clark's core. "I'm not...good," Bruce says, haltingly. "With...pep talks or any other kind of talk actually, but...you're gonna be alright, Clark. You're the strongest person I know, and not because you're Superman."

"Thank you, Bruce," Clark says, touched. He thinks that might be the first compliment Bruce has ever paid him.

Bruce nods and the elevator doors close behind him, leaving Clark alone in his office. 

Leaving _Superman_ , alone and unsupervised, in Gotham. 

***


	4. Chapter 4

It's not that Clark hadn't _believed_ his mom when she'd said Bruce used to come by for dinner. Of course he had. It's just...he hasn't quite been able to picture the logistics of it. Bruce occupies such a different world from his own, a world of private jets and super-sized yachts, a world of exclusive parties and stretch limos and the finest chefs preparing the rarest of culinary delights.

Quite the contrast to the cozy, dated kitchen at the farm, with its mis-matched pans and plates and the simple, hearty meals his mom always makes. 

But when Bruce shows up for their appointed dinner, he manages, yet again, to throw Clark for a loop. Instead of riding up in a chauffeured limo, Bruce drives himself in a nondescript sedan. Instead of showing up one of his carelessly worn tuxes, he's dressed more casually – still slacks and a vest, but no tie or jacket. And instead of being fashionably late, he knocks on the door right on time, cradling a tasteful bouquet of roses in one hand, and a bottle of expensive-looking French wine in the other. 

Mom greets him, laughing, and accepts both the bouquet and the kiss to her cheek with a delightful blush Clark's never seen on her face, not even when Dad had been alive.

"You know you don't have to bring flowers and wine every time you come over," she says, holding open the screen door so Bruce can step into the living room.

"Ah, but how else am I supposed to show you my devotion when you won't even let me buy you a new tractor?" Bruce teases, with a quick, dimpled grin. Flirtatious, yes, but also remarkably sincere. It's quite the sight.

Then Bruce holds out a hand his way. "Clark, good to see you. How're you doing?"

"Good," Clark answers, returning the handshake. "Better," he amends, answering Bruce's silent question. 

He won't lie, he hasn't exactly been himself since the breakup, but he's getting better. (Which, he thinks, only proves Lois' point about how they're better off as friends.) Between his responsibilities at the farm and his duties as Superman, he's keeping busy. And it's helped, more than he'd thought possible. Maybe his dad had been onto something when he'd always said that hard work cures most ailments.

"Glad to hear it," Bruce tells him, with another warm, charming smile that Clark can't help but return. 

"Dinner'll be a bit if you two boys wanted to catch up," Martha says, patting them both on the arm on her way into the kitchen. "Clark, you should let Bruce help you with that computer problem you've been having. It'll give you both something to do."

Bruce lifts an eyebrow. "Computer problem?"

"It's nothing," Clark protests. "You came here for dinner, not to work."

"It's fine. Show me." It's not quite an order, but it's not exactly a request, either.

Still, Clark's stubborn enough he thinks about arguing for another minute, if only to prove a point. Although he's not sure what point it is he'd be making, or why. This is probably just Bruce, in his very Bruce-like way, trying to be friendly. "If you insist," he finally acquiesces. "Come on."

He takes Bruce to the barn, where he's got a workstation terminal hooked up to the Kryptonian space-pod. "I know it's not as sophisticated as what you've got set up in your cave," he says, as Bruce circles the bench with a thoughtful look on his face, "but everything's been running okay until a few days ago, and oh, you probably need my password –" He breaks off as Bruce taps a few keys, and the monitors come to life, displaying the homepage "– or not, I guess." 

Of _course_ Bruce would be able to hack into his computer in under five seconds.

Bruce's fingers seem to fly as he types out another set of commands. "Looks like you're running a bastardized version of the IST program used to power the scout ship." His eyes are almost silver in the reflected blue glow of the screen.

"That's right," Clark answers. "I was trying to teach myself Kryptonian and to learn more about my home planet before, um, Doomsday happened. And, after I came back...well, it just seemed like a good idea to try to continue my studies. Just in case," he adds, feeling very foolish, even though he has no idea why. "And a few days ago, something happened and it stopped configuring the translations or...well, I don't know really, Victor was the one who set everything up." 

Bruce glances at him "If it's Kryptonian you're interested in, I have an algorithm that'll help you learn it faster than what you have here. If you wanted me to install it."

"You...I'm sorry, what?" Clark asks, hopelessly confused. "You...have an algorithm that translates Kryptonian into English?"

"It wasn't my best coding, but it seemed to work well enough for the Air Force and Darpa when they were deciphering all of the downloaded text from the scout ship, so I guess it did the job."

"You...that...that was _Wayne_ tech?" Clark asks, blinking. "I thought it was Lexcorp."

Bruce rocks back on his heels, and grimaces. "Lex Luthor may be great at manipulating people, but his code is an insult on every level. I built the IST program myself." 

"Yourself?" Clark asks, faintly. Where had Bruce found the _time_? Did he _ever_ sleep? 

"Like I said, it wasn't anything sophisticated." Bruce tilts his head, giving Clark a thoughtful look. "The language is beautiful, by the way. Such an elegant and precise way to communicate."

" _And_ you're fluent in Kryptonian," Clark states, dryly, then laughs, because of course Bruce would know Kryptonian better than the actual last living Kryptonian. Is there anything he can't do?

"I thought knowing it could come in handy." Bruce shrugs those wide shoulders, almost sheepish. "At first, it was just in case there was another invasion –" his grimace this time is apologetic "– and, after you died, it just seemed like someone should...well, it just seemed important that the language not die with you. I didn't know you didn't know it."

"I'm not very good with languages," Clark admits, self-conscious. "I mean, I try, but it doesn't come very easy to me."

Bruce smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, Lois mentioned once." 

"She used to make fun of my clumsy attempts at Spanish all the time." 

"Well, I can't promise Kryptonian is easier than Spanish, but if you wanted to learn your native tongue, the least I can do is help," Bruce offers, tapping at the monitor. "It shouldn't take too long to get things up and running."

"That's...very nice of you."

"Just repaying a debt," Bruce says, quietly. "That's all."

There's that word again. _Debt_. Although Clark still isn't sure what debt Bruce is paying off, exactly. And why he's so hellbent on doing it. Clark has a million questions – _again_ – but asking them when Bruce is a guest in his mother's house, and probably expecting only dinner and polite conversation, seems rude. Like Clark had had an ulterior motive for extending the invite. Which, maybe he had, but it's only to try to learn more about Bruce.

Although, the more he learns, the more questions he has. 

He thinks of all of the books in Bruce's house, and how many are in vastly different languages. About the wide array of gadgets and devices Bruce uses on a regular basis and how Bruce had to have invented all of them and built them from scratch. About the cave itself, and how Bruce had most likely designed that on his own, too. About where Bruce had learned to use a grappling hook and who had taught him all of those different fighting styles and where he'd learned to read a crime scene and how he'd come by all of those terrifyingly competent deduction skills and the computer hacking skills.... 

He thinks about all of the things he still doesn't know about Bruce – his history, his life, who he is under the mask. About all of the ways Bruce is still a riddle, all of the ways Bruce's pieces don't form a complete picture. Which is to say, Clark is pretty sure calling Bruce Wayne a mystery wrapped in an enigma would be a disservice to both mysteries _and_ enigmas.

But, they have time to get to know each other, Clark reminds himself. _He_ has time now to get to the bottom of why Bruce thinks he owes Clark anything when, at this point, Clark thinks it's the other way around.

"Exactly how many languages do you know?" he asks, figuring he may as well start somewhere.

"Fluently?" Bruce pauses, seems to think for a minute. "Sixteen, if I had to guess off the top of my head. But I'm conversant in about a dozen more."

Clark clears a suddenly dry throat. "That's...incredible." 

Fluent in _sixteen_ languages. Clark can't even _name_ sixteen different languages. Forget crime fighting, Bruce should be working at the UN.

Bruce leans against the table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, his ankles crossed over each other. It's probably the most relaxed Clark has ever seen him, and he still has his vest buttoned, hugging his impressive chest and lean stomach like a glove. 

"Knowing a variety of languages is useful, especially when I'm out on patrol," Bruce says, like it's no big deal. "I have a translator looped into my earpiece for the ones I don't know, but it doesn't catch a lot of the nuances in localized dialects."

"There's that word again. Useful." Clark shakes his head, giving Bruce a mock-disappointed look. "Not everything has to be about the mission, Bruce." 

The lines of Bruce's forehead furrow. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You do know there's more to life than being The Batman, right?" Clark asks, but from the look Bruce is giving him, maybe it's not as obvious as he'd assumed. It's nice to know that he's an expert on at least one thing Bruce isn't. "You know, friends, companionship, hobbies? Enjoying a really great burger with bacon and avocado?"

Bruce lets out the biggest _I'm disappointed in all your life choices_ sigh Clark's ever heard. It's kinda cute. "Of _course_ you put avocado on your burger." 

"It's delicious, you should try it sometime," he replies, grinning, because this conversation has taken a turn for the utterly absurd, and he loves that Bruce is going along with it. "Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"I was just thinking that if I was to look up Metropolis Hipster on Google, I'd see an image of you," Bruce replies, his lips curving upwards in a small, teasing smile, one that lights up his face and makes him look a good decade younger. "Wearing your distractingly boring glasses and one of your many plaid shirts, sporting a thick, burly beard, and holding up a craft-brewed IPA."

"I..." Clark clicks his mouth shut. He actually _does_ enjoy a good, hoppy ale. And he'd chosen the glasses precisely because they're the pinnacle of boring. No one looks twice at him in them, or the plaid shirts (which are also comfortable, so there). "My beard doesn't grow in that thick," is what he finally says.

Bruce snorts, amused. "You forget I've seen you shirtless. I have no doubt your beard would be magnificent. Although," he muses, stroking his chin as he gives Clark a lingering look, "it would be a shame to cover that dimple on your chin."

That...is that...is Bruce... _flirting_ with him? Clark blinks, frozen in place. He's imagining things, right? Because there's no way Bruce would be... _no_ , it doesn't even bear thinking about.

"Um..." he says, cursing his clumsy tongue. "I, uh..."

"Clark, Bruce, dinner!" Martha calls, thankfully yanking Clark back to reality. A reality where a man like Bruce flirts like he breathes, because that's what's expected of him. Just another role he plays to perfection. Besides, Bruce is...well, he's way out of Clark's league. So far apart they really are from different planets (and not just in the physical sense). 

Bruce's lips quirk in a self-deprecating expression as he straightens to his full height. "We probably shouldn't keep your mother waiting," he says, gently. "She tends to withhold dessert as punishment."

"Yeah, you're...you're not wrong," Clark replies, on auto-pilot.

Though, as he follows Bruce inside, he can't help the feeling that he's let something slip through his fingers.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to Selofain's amazing art (including hipster!Clark :D) [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985224)!!!


	5. Chapter 5

Clark doesn't _mean_ to obsess over his and Bruce's conversation in the barn, he just...can't help it. The idea of Bruce flirting with him just...it just doesn't make sense. Which, Clark is most likely reading too much into things, as usual. They're not even really friends, let alone anything else. Sure, they'd saved each other's lives more than once, but they'd also tried to kill each other, so things are...well, just as complicated as ever. 

(And he is _so_ sick of that word.)

It's not that he wouldn't be flattered if it _had_ been flirting (which of course it hadn't been). Bruce is ridiculously attractive, with a body sculpted to perfection and a jawline that could cut glass and thick hair begging for fingers to be run through it. Add in the fact that he's sliding ever-so-gracefully from youth to middle age, and setting the bar so high no one else can compete, and, well, Clark might not be human, exactly, but he's certainly human enough to appreciate the aesthetics. And he may have had the odd idle thought of tracing numerous scars with his lips, of wondering what it would take to make a man like Bruce surrender to pleasure, to be able to turn that terrifyingly logical brain of his off and get him to just _feel_. And Clark's musings might have also drifted more than once to the memory of how Bruce had looked naked and damp from the shower, the way the rivulets of water had wound over those endless acres of muscle and skin... 

Okay, so maybe he's got a slight thing for Bruce. He's pretty sure half the planet does. It doesn't _mean_ anything. Besides, he's supposed to be nursing his broken heart, isn't he? Wallowing in his misery and listening to sad songs and eating a ton of ice cream and forswearing dating or whatever it is he's supposed to be doing. Which definitely does _not_ include mildly lusting after his aforementioned very attractive teammate-slash-not-quite-friend. Even if said person is the living personification of brilliant and bold and beautiful – all qualities that make Clark weak at the knees.

Besides, he's not ready, that's all there is to it. Even if Bruce had been flirting (which he _hadn't_ been), Clark's not ready to put himself out there again. He should be focusing on himself, getting his life back on track, trying to figure out what to do with his time, not... Well, he's just going to put it out of his mind, that's all.

If he ignores it, it'll blow over.

***

Spring gives way to summer, and Clark's starting to think maybe he did imagine the whole thing. It's not like he's seen Bruce a lot since he'd come to dinner, but the few times their paths have crossed, Bruce is his usual inscrutable self. Perfectly polite, perfectly agreeable (or, as agreeable as he ever is), but no hint of anything else, and certainly nothing that could even be remotely construed as flirting. And, gradually, Clark really does put it out of his mind, because he's got other things to focus on that aren't Bruce and whatever he'd been doing that night. 

So, when he gets an incoming call on the special League earpiece Bruce had given the team, he doesn't think much of it. "Superman here," he says, mindful of the stringent rules Bruce had put in place when he'd given them their devices. No real names on comms, no identifying personal information that could tie to their civilian identities, no locations.

"Kal-El, it's good to hear your voice," Diana replies, every word infused with that special warmth she radiates so naturally. "Are you busy?"

"Not especially." He's in Chile, aiding evacuation crews in the aftermath of an earthquake, but he's pretty much done all he can, and had been getting ready to fly back to the farm.

"Would you mind stopping by the headquarters?" she asks. "It won't take long."

"Uh, sure." It's so rare that Diana asks for a favor that he's curious. "I'll be there in ten."

***

Even after the flight to the Wayne estate, he can still feel dirt and mud and grit clinging to his hair and chafing under his suit. He probably should have gone home and showered first, but it's not like Diana will care if he's dirty.

Except, it's not just Diana striding out of the manor to meet him. Bruce is beside her, wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a stretched out tank top. Beads of sweat are dotting his forehead, and rolling along his clavicle. _Whoa_. 

Alright, maybe he hasn't quite forgotten his physical attraction to Bruce as much as he'd thought.

"Clark, it's good of you to come," Diana greets and, heedless of his appearance, leans in to brush her lips against his cheek. "Bruce and I had a few ideas we wanted to run by you."

"What...um, oh, yeah, sure." He blinks and reluctantly turns to face Diana. Who's as impeccably put together as always, in a ruby red pantsuit and Louboutins, flawless in a way that has nothing to do with the sophistication of her outfit or hair and makeup.

Bruce huffs a laugh. "Don't worry, she ambushed me too, if that makes you feel better."

"Hush, I did no such thing," Diana admonishes, but her lips curve up. "Shall we?"

"After you," Bruce says, and falls into step beside Clark as they follow Diana inside the manor. "Everything okay?" he quietly asks. "This isn't an emergency, if you're needed elsewhere."

Clark shakes his head. "No, it's fine...I was in Chile."

"The earthquakes, right," Bruce says, and lets out a slow breath. "I'm sorry."

Clark nods. "There's not much else for me to do, though, so..."

Bruce claps a hand on his shoulder and starts kneading, the touch soothing and electric in equal measure. "You did all you could."

"Doesn't feel like it," Clark mumbles, but he's grateful all the same. He also wonders if Bruce has ever taken his own advice.

Diana stops when they all get to the hall – it's been a few weeks since Clark's seen it, and he's surprised at how much it's changed. The room is now spotless, with new parquet floors and sconces on the walls and sparkling clean floor-to-ceiling windows. There's a large, heavy oak table, polished to a high shine, at the center of the room, with about a dozen chairs surrounding it. It reminds Clark a little of drawings he's seen of the Round Table of Camelot. It looks exactly like the schematics Bruce had shown him months ago.

"This is amazing," he remarks, impressed.

"That's mostly Diana and Alfred's doing," Bruce says, but his gaze is fond, almost paternal, when he looks around. Clark wonders how weird this must be for him, opening his childhood home to essential strangers (albeit strangers he's saved the world with), and how much courage it must have taken for him to have made the offer in the first place.

"Don't listen to him," Diana says, leaning against the table. "He's been here every day."

"Supervising."

"Working," Diana argues, giving Bruce a pointed look.

"Am I supposed to pick sides or something?" Clark asks, just to see if he can make Bruce smile.

He's not disappointed. "No, I'd never ask you to take my side over hers," Bruce chuckles, and yep, those eye crinkles are just as devastatingly attractive as ever. Not to mention the way the tank top shows off his impressive shoulders and arms and the way his jeans mold thick thighs and...well, Clark probably should think about something else. Anything else.

"But we would like for you to settle a dispute of sorts between us," Diana continues. 

"Dispute?" Clark looks between them. "About what?"

"Leadership," Diana says, with a meaningful glance at Bruce.

Bruce ignores it. "Specifically, who's going to lead the team."

"It's not...you?" Clark asks Bruce, confused. Bruce is the clear tactical leader, not to mention the one bankrolling the whole operation. 

Bruce outright laughs at that, genuine and long. "Oh no, I'm no leader." He jerks a thumb at Diana. "But she is."

"Except it should be you, Clark," Diana counters.

"Wait, _me_?" Clark points to himself. "You want _me_ to lead the team?"

"You're Superman," Diana replies. "You are the beacon of hope the world looks up to."

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. "Which, I agree he is, you know that, but he's too hot-headed to be team leader. Like it or not, Diana, it needs to be you."

"I'm not hotheaded," Clark protests, latching onto the only thing that makes sense. There's no way he's got what it takes to lead the team, true, but it still hurts that Bruce doesn't have faith that he could.

Bruce raises an eyebrow, and that smooth, insufferable mask slips over his face. "You're not?" he asks, his tone pleasant and neutral, every inch the lord of the manor in spite of his work-rough clothing. "Perhaps we should call Lois and see if she agrees with me...oh, that's right" – Bruce snaps his fingers – "she's not in the picture anymore, is she?"

Clark's breath stutters in his lungs. "Lois has nothing to do with this."

Bruce's smile seems to grow more mocking. "Losing a woman so beautiful, so passionate, so completely out of your league – I mean, I'm no expert, since it's never happened to me, but I would think getting dumped like that would have to sting."

" _Bruce_. Now is not –" Diana warns, but Bruce continues on, blithely ignoring her.

"But now that she's in play again, it's time I made my move. I may not be a god, but I bet I could make her scream for me –"

Clark's across the room and slamming Bruce against the hard, unforgiving wall before he's even aware of the movement. "Shut. Up."

Bruce doesn't even have the decency to look either surprised or scared. "Hit a nerve?" he drawls, with a slight, fuck you smile. Clark can sense Diana watching them both out of wary, cool eyes, but right now, she seems content to let them settle it like the children she often accuses them of being.

Clark can't help but think he's let her down. That he's betraying the lofty ideal everyone has of him. He should be better than this. He _is_ better than this. The mantra repeats in his head, the voice sounding suspiciously like his father's, but it's so hard to focus over the white-hot anger burning through him. 

"What the hell are you playing at?" he bites out.

"Merely proving a point," Bruce says, without making the most cursory attempt to move out of Clark's hold. 

"Hardly the appropriate way to go about it," Diana remarks, tartly.

"It worked," Bruce tells her, then refocuses on Clark. "You're a liability to the team and to civilians until you can get your emotions under control out in the field. And _that_ is why I'm against you leading the team."

Clark removes his hands from Bruce's shoulders, but only moves back a scant few inches. "You...this was a test?" 

Bruce offers a genuinely contrite look. "I'm a lot of terrible things, Clark, but not even I'm low enough to go sniffing after a friend's ex."

"Wait, we're friends?" Which isn't what Clark had meant to ask at all, but clearly he's got zero control over his brain-to-mouth filter where Bruce is concerned. 

"Aren't we?"

 _Are_ they? Clark would like them to be, but it's hard to imagine that possibility when Bruce pulls a stunt like this. "Friends don't test friends like you just did."

Bruce shrugs. "None of your other friends are me."

"I cannot decide if this is an apology or the start of a fight, and if it is making things worse or better," Diana comments. "The ways of men are still very strange."

Bruce gives her a crooked smile. "All I'm saying is, Clark could use a few pointers in control."

"And who are you suggesting to be the one to teach me?" Clark asks, acerbically. "Diana? Victor?"

Bruce's lips tugs up in that familiar half-smirk, but he says nothing. Which...no. There's no way Bruce means...

" _You_?" Clark whispers, horrified, as he stumbles back another step. "Bruce, I could kill you with one punch."

"You'd have to hit me first to do that," Bruce states, genially. "But we could even the stakes a little, if it makes you feel better."

Clark opens his mouth to ask what Bruce means, and that's when he sees it. The small, lead-lined box now in Bruce's right hand. "Kryptonite?" he asks, his gaze flying up to Bruce's face. "You have Kryptonite _on_ you?"

No wonder Bruce hadn't been remotely concerned when Clark had thrown him against the wall. He'd had the ultimate trump card on his person the entire time. 

"Just a small sliver," Bruce explains. "I couldn't be sure exactly how you'd react, and I wanted to be prepared."

He doesn't even know what to say. Just...that Bruce had thought through enough scenarios before Clark had even _gotten_ there to think to have Kryptonite on him, just in case Clark had tried something. It's...insulting. Demeaning. The lack of faith and trust in Clark's temper is...well, it hurts, he won't lie. The fact that he's so predictable, that Bruce hadn't been wrong about him, is demoralizing. He _should_ be better than this. 

And yet, under it all, the biggest emotion is...

Fuck, it's arousal. 

He's pretty sure all of the blood in his body is camped out in his dick, because he's never been so hard in his _life_. This is completely inappropriate. But still, he can't lie to himself. Bruce, and his scarily analytical, brilliant brain, are unbelievably hot. 

"It's not enough to incapacitate you," Bruce continues, thankfully oblivious to Clark's tangled thoughts. "Just enough to...level the playing field."

"Why?" Clark croaks out, willing his body to ease down, and back off. How is he supposed to be this beacon for the world if he can't get his own libido under control? Maybe Bruce does have a point. A slight one.

"Because you need to hit someone who can hit back," Bruce explains, with another one of those disarming, crooked smiles. "And, frankly, you need to learn how to fight."

"I know how to fight," Clark says, over Diana's very amused snort.

"No, Clark," she says, gently. "You know how to punch people very hard. And that is _not_ the same thing as having proper form and technique."

Bruce tilts his head in Diana's direction. "What the lady said." 

Clark's getting the distinct impression he's being ganged up on. "My way has worked so far," he says, defensively.

"Sure," Bruce agrees, still smiling, "except for that time General Zod used you as a battering ram to destroy a big chunk of downtown Metropolis. And the time right after we resuscitated you when Diana could have killed you, but pulled her punches because you weren't yourself at the time. Oh, and that time when I kicked your ass, and almost killed you, despite being merely human –"

"You are many things, Bruce, but _merely_ human is not among them," Diana says, wryly. 

"What he _is_ is insufferably arrogant," Clark states, daring Bruce to argue.

Which, of course he doesn't. "You're not the first person who's said that to me and I doubt you'll be the last."

"I think it's a good idea," Diana says. "And Bruce is an excellent teacher. You could do far worse."

"Why do I get the feeling there was a League vote that I wasn't invited to?" Clark asks, suspicious. "Was all of this a ruse just to get me to say yes to getting some training?"

"Paranoia is Bruce's job, not yours," Diana teases, and reaches out to touch his arm. "No one set out to coerce you. But there is no shame in learning that which you were never taught. None of us are born with knowledge."

"Well, when you put it like that," Clark sighs, suddenly embarrassed about how he'd been reacting. They're just trying to help. Albeit, their methods could use some fine-tuning, but they mean well. Mostly. Well, Diana, he's pretty sure, means well. Bruce, on the other hand...who knows. 

"Does that mean you're willing to let me teach you how to fight?" Bruce asks.

"What, like, now? Here?" Clark asks, gesturing between the two of them. He's still in his dirty, dusty suit. Bruce is still wearing jeans and a tank top. They're nowhere near a gym or mats or anything else.

Bruce shrugs. "No time like the present. And here's just fine."

"If you mess up the floors, Alfred will not be pleased," Diana warns, but there's no real heat behind it.

"We'll be careful," Bruce promises, then lifts an eyebrow Clark's way. "Won't we, Clark."

Clark's not entirely sure when he'd lost complete control of the situation, but he's pretty sure it had been the second he'd answered Diana's call. "Sure?"

"Excellent," Bruce says, and grins. "Diana, I trust you know what this means now?"

"It means this is my cue to take my leave so you two can work together without an audience," Diana comments, with a quick, sly wink for Bruce, as she strides out of the room. Clark can hear her car start a few moments later.

"She always did know the value of a great exit," Bruce comments, fondly.

"She's had a lot of practice," Clark says. He's also acutely, painfully aware of exactly how close he and Bruce still are to each other. 

"That she does, but I'm just as stubborn." Then Bruce shrugs, willing to cede the battle, if not the war. "So? Are we doing this?" 

"I guess we are," Clark replies, praying he's not getting ready to make the biggest mistake of his life.

"Great." Bruce finally pushes away from the wall and strides to the other side of the room, well away from the table. "Did you...want to change clothes or...?"

"Do you want me to change clothes?"

Bruce gives him a quick, but very thorough, once-over. "No, you're fine," he says, then crooks a finger. "I'm not going to bite you, Clark."

_Isn't that an interesting thought..._

"Oh, right. Um." Clark walks over to Bruce, and stops in front of him, feeling, yet again, like he's a puppet on a string. "So...how is this...uh, you know...how do we do this?"

Bruce's laugh is quiet, letting Clark in on the joke instead of making him the brunt of it. "Well, for starters, you might want to look a little less like a person being sent to the gallows and, maybe, lose the cape so it doesn't get in the way."

"Right, um." He unhooks the cape from his suit and lets it drift to the floor. He's not sure he can do much about Bruce's other request. He can't remember the last time he felt this awkward and tongue-tied around another human being. Maybe when he'd asked Lana Lang to senior prom. At least back then, he could have blamed it on teenage hormones.

"Were you...how is this going to work with..." He makes a gesture at Bruce's right hand, and the box holding the Kryptonite. He braces himself for the pain, reminds himself that he trusts Bruce now.

But Bruce surprises him yet again, and simply puts the box in his front jeans pocket. "I don't think we'll need it just yet."

"You don't?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Today, I think, is going to be a lesson in human anatomy," he states, then whips his tank top over his head, and toes off his shoes. Then he unbuttons his jeans to let them slide to the floor. He isn't wearing anything under them.

Once again, he stands naked before Clark. Naked and powerful, proud and unselfconscious, every scarred, muscled inch of him glorious and way too much temptation for anyone to resist. And Clark may have a lot of self-control (no matter what Bruce thinks), but he doesn't think anyone would blame him for staring. For looking his fill at the play of muscle under skin, at the way Bruce's body is both rock-solid and fluid, a work of art in motion.

Apollo, he thinks yet again. Incandescent. Dangerous. And utterly, awesomely beautiful.

"Um." Clark's positive his ears have to be as red as his cape. "That's...um..."

But Bruce just ignores Clark's stammering. "Come here."

Clark jerks one step forward, then another, until he's directly in front of Bruce. So close, he can count each one of Bruce's eyelashes, so close he thinks the heat from Bruce's body will burn him to ashes. "What..." He licks dry lips, resolutely does _not_ let his gaze drift down below Bruce's jaw. Not now that he's in touching distance. "What...why are you...?"

"Human anatomy," Bruce repeats, with a sly smirk that tells Clark more than words that Bruce is very aware of Clark's embarrassment. 

Then Bruce grabs one of Clark's hands and places it on his chest, right over one of the older scars, a jagged line running from his ribs to his sternum. Clark flinches slightly, but Bruce, when he speaks, is all business.

"There are 206 bones, over 650 muscles, and close to 100 billion nerves, in the human body," Bruce states, sounding every inch a professor talking to a student. "And the trick of incapacitating a human is knowing the correct leverage to use on each of them, and in what capacity, depending on the situation at hand."

"Um, right. Leverage," Clark repeats, a little hysterically. He wants to jerk his hand away and fly halfway around the world until he's cooled down. He wants to slide his hand along every nook and cranny of Bruce's body, to learn every inch of him by touch, from the atoms in his capillaries to the cells that make up his skin. Definitely not as immune to Bruce as he'd convinced himself.

"Now, the trick with you will be controlling your strength so you don't accidentally do more damage. But I imagine you have a lifetime of doing that to fall back on. It should be second nature to you."

Once again, Clark fights to follow the thread of the conversation, and not on sinking to his knees so he can lick every one of Bruce's innumerable scars. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Good," Bruce replies, "because you're going to need it." He glances down. "Right now, your hand is over my thoracic cavity, which is comprised of my sternum and my rib cage, which houses my heart and lungs and diaphragm. The thoracic cavity also contains the parietal and visceral pleura" – he moves Clark's hand to the correct spot – "and the mediastinal pleura, which is the space between the lungs."

"Right," Clark says again. Bruce's scent is woodsy, earthy, part expensive cologne, part honest sweat, and every single time Clark inhales, his own lungs fill with a headying mixture of smells.

Bruce slides Clark's hand down to his stomach, right over the ridges of his abdomen. Clark's thumb catches on a few coarse hairs, and he has to take a second to compose himself.

"The abdominal cavity consists of the rectus abdominis, the external obliques" – Bruce guides Clark's hand to his Adonis belt while Clark mentally counts to a hundred – "and the latissimus dorsi," he says, and Clark finds they're suddenly a lot closer to each other, with his hand now resting on Bruce's lower back. 

Coming from anyone else, this would have been blatant flirtation – an excuse to press close, a fun sort of foreplay. But Bruce's heart is still beating its normal, steady metronome, his breaths are still nice and even, and there's no rush of blood to his extremities, no telltale flush of arousal on his cheeks or anywhere else. Which means, maybe Bruce just parades around naked in front of people while offering himself as a human anatomy model all the time.

Clark's not entirely sure why that thought bothers him so much. (Or, he _is_ sure, he's just doing his best to ignore it.)

"How..." He has to clear his throat. "How do you know so much about anatomy?"

"My father was a doctor." Bruce briefly meets his eyes, then arranges them so Clark's now touching his stomach once again. "The major organs in this area are the liver, kidneys, small and large intestines, and –"

"Wait, your father was a doctor?" Clark interrupts, the words just now catching up to him. "Not the CEO of Wayne Enterprises?" That would explain why Bruce would have someone like Dr. Thompkins as a godmother.

Bruce purses his lips, the only sign he's annoyed at being cut off, but he answers the question. "No, my father had no interest in business. He left that to the Board and his best friend, Lucius Fox. They ran W.E., which left him to do what he did best – help people."

"Oh." Clark thinks maybe he should have known that. After all, it's not like Bruce isn't a public figure. It had just seemed...well, like cheating, to search for information on the internet, instead of waiting for Bruce to volunteer it himself.

"When I was younger, I used to dream of practicing alongside him. Afterwards..." Bruce's shoulders lift, his smile tinged with sadness and regret. "Well, my priorities shifted, to put it politely. But I could still utilize everything he'd taught me. And learning as much as I could about the human body – what it could do, what it could withstand, how to sustain it and break it – seemed like useful information to have."

Clark's heart cracks all over again for Bruce – for all he'd lost, all he'd endured. The unimaginable strength of him, both body and will. "Bruce..."

Bruce straightens, and takes a tiny, but crucial, step back. "I know, you don't have to remind me this isn't the life my father would have wanted for me."

"I was going to say I think your father would be proud of the man you've become," Clark responds, truthfully. 

Bruce snorts, the sound inelegant. "Dressing up like a bat and beating the shit out of criminals?"

"Helping people in need," Clark corrects, hoping like hell he hasn't overstepped some invisible boundary. It doesn't escape his notice that they're having this conversation while he's still in his Superman suit and Bruce is still naked; somehow, though, he feels like he's the vulnerable one. Just like the last time they'd been like this.

"Let's not get carried away."

"I mean it," Clark says. "I'm pretty sure my own father would have much rather had you for a son."

"Jor-El?" Bruce asks, and of course Bruce knows Clark's birth father's name. He probably knows more about Clark's history than Clark himself does. 

"Jonathan Kent," Clark corrects, and lets his own grief, his own regret, wash over him. "He wanted me to be a farmer, like his father and grandfather and every other generation of Kents. He died trying to protect me from a life of this."

"From having to save the world on a daily basis?" Bruce jokes, but the laughter doesn't reach his eyes.

"From having to save it at all," Clark says. "He was...he was always so afraid of what people would try to do to me if they found out what I really was."

Bruce drops his head, and nods once. "Like I did."

Clark holds a hand out, supplicant, and rests it lightly on Bruce's shoulder. Somehow, this touch feels more intimate than earlier, far more personal. "You had your reasons. And you still didn't kill me."

"That's not much comfort most days," Bruce replies, but he doesn't move out of Clark's hold. Clark tries (and somewhat fails) not to read too much into it.

"Let it be one now," Clark replies. More than anything, he hates the lost, defeated sound of Bruce's voice. "I'm here, aren't I? Thanks to you."

Bruce tilts his head, studying Clark out of those far too sharp brown eyes. "Don't paint me as some sort of hero. I was simply correcting a mistake."

Debt, mistake...so much penance for something that hadn't been Bruce's fault. "Let the blame lie with Lex, where it ought to."

"I shouldn't have been so easy to manipulate," Bruce bites out, and throws off Clark's hold to stand at attention, shoulders back, chest forward, like he's a soldier in line for inspection.

Like he thinks Clark is going to gaze on him and find him wanting.

Well, never let it be said that Clark's been good at doing what's expected, either. "You had good reason to fear me, to fear what I was capable of."

Bruce growls under his breath. "You know I don't deserve your forgiveness –"

"I tried to kill you too, you know."

They both stop, and stare at each other, Bruce wary, Clark conciliatory. This might not have been the time or place Clark would have chosen for this conversation, but they're here now, so they may as well get it all out of the way. 

"Lex pitted us against each other, not just you against me," he continues. "He manipulated _both_ of us. Who else do you think was sending me all of that damning intel about the infamous Bat of Gotham and insinuating that you'd moved into murder? If we'd killed each other that night at the shipyard, great, but even if we didn't, we'd be enemies, both of us convinced the other was a threat."

"It worked, too," Bruce replies, quietly.

"Yeah, it did," Clark says, with a small, rueful smile. "But, the point is, this guilt you have, it's not serving anything."

"It's what I'm good at."

"It's not _all_ you're good at," Clark reminds him. "You wouldn't have built all this" – he sweeps his hand out to encompass the room – "if you weren't capable of change."

Bruce chuckles, conceding the point with a slight nod. "Touché."

Clark's lips twitch in relief. He knows better than to think a single conversation will stem the tide of Bruce's self-loathing, but this is a good start. "Wouldn't be much of a reporter if I couldn't make the occasional point," he says.

"And you did win the Elliott Prize for Investigative Journalism two years in a row."

"Yes, I did," Clark agrees, stunned and pleased. Somehow, knowing that Bruce knows just as much about Clark Kent as he does Superman is...well, it's comforting. "Which means I'm going to be clear and concise so you can't exploit some loophole in my words."

"You _are_ learning," Bruce comments, and places a hand to his heart. "They grow up so fast."

"Smartass," Clark says, fondly. "I just mean...when I tell you that you have no debt to repay me, I need you to believe me."

Bruce just looks at him for a long, long time, still and utterly silent. Then he finally nods. "Okay."

Clark blinks. "Just...just like that?"

The look Bruce gives him is inscrutable. "Yeah, Clark, just like that."

Clark knows better, but he'll take it. "Okay, then," he replies, conceding the argument.

He knows it's the right call when Bruce simply smiles. Weary, but genuine. "Are you ready to continue your lesson or –"

"I should get going." Being around Bruce when he's in impersonal teaching mode is one thing. Being around him – naked, no less – when he's open and friendly, the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkling in that delightful way they do when he's truly pleased...well, Clark's smart enough not to press his luck. Especially not now that he knows his attraction to Bruce isn't some fleeting, easily set aside crush.

He grabs his cape and re-affixes it to his suit, careful not to look Bruce directly in the eyes. "I'll, um – we can reschedule, right?"

"Whenever you're ready, I'll be waiting," Bruce gently says, then scoops up his clothes from the floor. "I'll see you later, Clark." With that, he strides out of the room.

"Right," Clark mutters to himself. "See you." 

But it's a long time before he can make himself move.

***


	6. Chapter 6

"I gotta say," Arthur says, straddling the chair next to Clark's at the bar, "I didn't peg you for a day drinker. But I dig it."

Clark sets his IPA back on the counter and blinks. Of all the people in the world to run into in a dive bar on the south side of Metropolis... "Um, hi," he responds, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood," Arthur tells him, and holds up two fingers to the bartender. He sighs happily when she places two large mugs of lager in front of him. "So, what's the occasion?"

"Just came here to think," Clark says and watches, fascinated, as Arthur empties one of the mugs in one very large, and very noisy, swallow. "Seriously, how did you know I was here?"

Arthur lets out an inelegant snort, and then lowers his voice. "You do know those fancy earpieces a certain control freak insists we carry around at all times have a GPS signal, right?"

No, Clark hadn't known that. Although, he can't say he's surprised. Bruce's control issues have control issues. "Bruce sent you?" he asks, just as quietly.

"Dude, I'm not his errand boy, he didn't _send_ me anywhere." Arthur grimaces, looking completely insulted (which, Clark thinks, probably shouldn't be as adorable as it is). Then, he takes a large sip from the other mug, and swipes the foam with the back of his hand. "But, yeah, he may have reached out. And, since I like it when he owes me favors, and I was curious as to why you've been holed up here all day, I might've volunteered my services."

"Not all day," Clark argues, because _that's_ clearly the important thing. 

"Five hours is pretty much all day," Arthur says, with a maddeningly bright grin. "But, like I said, I'm not judging."

Clark shrugs, and then peers at Arthur. They're not especially close, but it's not like Clark has too many friends who actually know he's still alive. And that's kinda the problem. Friends – in this case, what to do about them. "You mind if I ask you something?"

"Lay it on me."

Clark orders them another round, then twists in his seat to face Arthur. "How do you juggle your two lives? I mean...well, you know what I mean."

"Very badly, to hear Mera talk," Arthur laughs, slapping his knee at his own joke. "Is that what you've been thinking about?"

"I just don't know how you and Bruce do it is all," Clark concedes. "I think I might've been okay at it at one point, but the idea of getting back out there...I don't know."

"Why're you thinking about this now?"

"Bruce texted last night," Clark answers, lowering his voice again, not that two other patrons on the other side of the bar are paying them the least bit of attention. "He thinks there's been enough time between Superman's resurrection and mine that no one will put two and two together if I go back to The Planet, but I'm not sure it's a good idea."

Part of him desperately wants to go back to work – to get at least that much of his old life back. But the other part of him, led by that insidious voice in his head, can't help but wonder why he's bothering. He's not Bruce – he's terrible at separating his two halves. Perhaps it's a mistake to keep trying.

"Well, if you miss it, and you've got the opportunity to go back to it, then why not?" Arthur asks.

"Because everyone moved on while I was gone, and maybe I should be doing the same thing instead of trying to reclaim what's lost," Clark explains, giving voice to the worry that's plagued him since the day he'd come back. 

"Is this about your girl?"

"Ex-girl, and no, not particularly." Sure, he'll always have the odd pang for what might've been, but Lois had been right – their lives are in different places now. 

"So, what's the problem?" Arthur empties his mug and sets it down with a satisfied thump. "There's no downside to getting some part of your life back."

Clark shakes his head. "Just something Bruce said once is all."

Arthur snorts. "Bruce says a lot of shit. Man's got a brain bigger than most computers, but he's not real good with people."

"He's good with kids," Clark mutters, frowning into the foam of his new beer like it has any answers.

"Are we talking about the same guy?" Arthur asks, incredulous. "Lives to piss people off, not a team player, thinks he's smarter than the rest of us?"

"And yet, children love him," Clark says, spreading his hands out wide. "I've seen it firsthand. It's pretty sweet."

"Sweet." Arthur shakes his head. "Careful there, it almost sounds like you've got a crush on the guy."

"Oh, it's not really a – why are you laughing?" 

"No reason," Arthur chuckles, with a wave of his hand. "Please, by all means, continue."

"It's not," Clark protests, sure his blush has to be visible by now to the naked eye. "I mean, sure, he's good-looking and smart and super helpful in his own weird way and, well, my mom adores him, and did you know he knows sixteen languages fluently, but it's not...I mean, it's nothing serious."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, then claps him on the back. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Besides, even if I was interested in Bruce – which I'm not saying I am –" Clark lies, "he's not. Interested in me, I mean."

"Dude was willing to throw down with Diana to bring you back from the dead, and he bought an entire bank just to clear the loan on your mom's farm," Arthur counters. "I think that counts as a proposal in some countries."

"Oh well," Clark sputters, "that was just...do you really think he does?"

"Only one way to find out," Arthur replies, with another shrug. "And as far as your work to life dilemma, you liked being a reporter, right? Having a job and a life that didn't revolve around being Big Blue?"

"Yeah," Clark admits softly, "I did." 

There are so many things he won't get back – his sense of invulnerability, his relationship with Lois, that bedrock moral certainty of his actions – but it _shouldn't_ mean giving everything up altogether. Lex may have cheated Clark out of his old life, but he can still forge a new one from the ashes. He can still make a difference as Superman _and_ as Clark Kent.

He thinks about Bruce's words from so many months ago – _you're gonna be alright...you're the strongest person I know, and not because you're Superman_ – and the warm glow that spreads through him has nothing to do with the alcohol. Maybe he is ready, after all. 

"Then you've got your answer," Arthur tells him, with another slap to his back.

Yeah, he guesses he does. 

***

In the end, Bruce – and Arthur – are right. No, he's not quite ready to move back to Metropolis yet, but he _has_ missed his job at The Planet. He's missed chasing after a story, and digging until he's gotten the answers. He's missed the energy and buzz of the bullpen, missed his co-workers and Perry White calling out assignments...but mostly, he's missed Lois. Missed talking to her every day, missed seeing that light in her eyes when she got hold of a lead or when they used to brainstorm until the wee hours.

Coming back isn't as awkward as it could have been. Clark supposes he's got Bruce to thank for that, as well. For the smooth reintroduction to his old job, for the easy way everyone at the office has accepted that he'd been recovering from undisclosed injuries and is only now ready to ease his way back into work. (It's not even a lie, as far as it goes.)

Bruce has gone through so much trouble for him, and it _can't_ be just for the sake of repaying a debt. It just can't. But it also can't mean anything else either, no matter what Arthur thinks. Clark's reading too much into things, so used to chasing stories, to digging for deeper truths, that he's making more of this than there is. If Bruce really wanted him, he'd just come right out and say so, wouldn't he?

No, actually, he wouldn't, Clark reminds himself. Bruce is many things, but direct isn't one of them. 

So maybe this _is_ all Bruce's very Bruce-like way of trying to subtly let Clark know he's open to deepening their relationship, such as it is. Or Clark's twisting himself up in knots for no good reason, and Bruce is just trying to be friendly, or whatever passes for it in Bruce's head. Or it could be that he's letting his not-quite crush color his thinking, which is just embarrassing and – 

Fingers snap in front of his face, jerking him back to the present. "Earth to Clark," Lois says, leaning against his desk.

"Sorry, I...hi." He brings his chair back on all four legs and smiles up at her. "It's good to see you."

"You too," she says, and gestures at him, her smile gentle and more than a little proud. "Guess you finally decided to come back to do some real work," she teases, the double meaning not lost on either of them.

He pushes his glasses up with a finger, and quells the familiar pang of what might have been. He's sure he'll always have a little bit of regret, but it's getting easier to live with. "Yeah. Mom's hints that I get out of the house and from under her feet were getting progressively less subtle," he replies, keeping the same light tone.

She laughs. "Her lack of subtlety is one of her best qualities."

"It is," he agrees. "You should come by sometime and see her. Not, I mean, this isn't me trying to..."

"It's okay, I get it," she says, softly. "And I'd love to. It'd be nice to see her again." She tilts her head, studying him. "So, what had you so far away a minute ago? Do you...need to go somewhere?"

"Oh no, nothing like that." There's a structural fire five blocks down, but MFD has it well under control. And there's a tropical storm brewing off the coast of Karnataka he's keeping an ear out for, but nothing that needs his immediate attention. "I was just...thinking about Bruce, actually."

She braces her hands behind her on the desk, her look now speculative. "What about him?"

He should have known better than to say anything, but he's never been good at keeping secrets from her. "I just can't figure him out is all," he says, with a shrug he knows she won't buy.

Her laughter is delighted. "It's Bruce Wayne. I don't even think you or Diana have that kind of time."

"True," he concedes, chuckling along with her. "I guess it's more me trying to...I don't know. I think I might be...interested in him...like, you know, _interested_ , which, just saying it out loud sounds bizarre."

But Lois doesn't look shocked or even confused. Instead, she looks contemplative. "That would explain a lot," she muses to herself, then focuses back on Clark. "And how does that make you feel?"

Which is the really big question, isn't it. Certainly, he's fascinated by Bruce – his mind, his wit, the never-ending mystery of what keeps him motivated to suit up every night. And, clearly, he's not immune to Bruce's considerable physical attributes, and all of the ways he'd love to have Bruce against him, under him, focused on him and only him. But, all the same, is he really ready for...whatever he and Bruce could be? He and Lois have only been broken up a few months, and he'd wanted to _marry_ her before...well, before. And he should be focused on getting himself back on track, and not on Bruce naked and flushed with arousal and moaning Clark's name.

"I don't know," he answers, finally, with a helpless sigh. He's not sure he could explain this tangle of emotions, even to her.

"You're lying." Lois leans in to rub a finger between his brows. "You always get scrunchy right here when you're not telling the truth."

She knows him far too well. Which is entirely the problem. "Don't you think it's weird that I could contemplate being with someone else so soon?" 

"It's not weird at all," she says, and cups his cheek, her thumb brushing against his jawline. "In fact, I'd say it's pretty healthy."

"Are you? Moving on, I mean," he asks, quietly. And isn't surprised at all when she just nods her head, once.

"I am," she says, and somehow, hearing it soothes a bit of that ache. Lois deserves the world, and if Clark can't give it to her, well, she should find someone who can.

"You should ask him out."

Clark blinks, certain he's misheard. "I should...what?" he asks. "You're telling me to ask Bruce _Wayne_ out on a date?"

"You could at least make dinner for him one night," she continues, ignoring his wide-eyed stare. "You've always been a good cook and he could use more homemade meals."

"You sound like Mom, she's always after him to eat better," he remarks, but then...well...the idea starts to set in his mind. It's just dinner. Bruce had come over to his place for a meal, so it would make sense for Clark to return the favor, right? It _doesn't_ have to mean anything. But it might be a good way to test the waters. To see if Bruce really had been giving him signs or signals or clues or whatever. To see if there really is anything there worth exploring. 

"You...you really think I should?" he asks.

"Wouldn't hurt," she says, and cocks her head towards the conference room, where the department heads are trickling in for the morning briefing. "You ready to get back in the ring, Smallville?"

Is he? That's another good question. "I guess I must be," he answers, and they both know he means more than just work.

***

He takes his time flying home that night, drifting high above the atmosphere most of the way. It's peaceful up here, quiet in a way it never is on earth, even in the most remote areas. All of his problems and concerns normally seem so minuscule when he's floating in space – but tonight he can't quite master his usual Zen-like state. His thoughts are too jumbled, too filled with Bruce.

Bruce, who keeps such a tightly coiled rein over his emotions, but yet still manages to give Clark glimpses of the achingly vulnerable man underneath. Bruce, who's so cold and disciplined and calculated at all times, and yet he'd taken the time to ask Arthur to check on Clark, because he'd thought Clark might need a friend. Bruce, who has Kryptonite on him, and yet has always trusted Clark enough not to use it, who'd given Clark such honest and heartfelt words of assurance after his break-up with Lois. Bruce, who'd looked after Clark's mom in Clark's absence, who'd risked so much, including his safety, to resurrect Clark, who'd given him back his life and his job... 

And had asked for absolutely nothing in return, except for Clark to help him and the others save the world.

How could Clark not fall for someone so selfless, so willing to give so much to others, and keep nothing for himself? A man capable of creating such viscerally beautiful paintings and comforting scared little girls, who keeps a clinic running in the middle of one of the worst parts of Gotham? Who _wouldn't_ want to be with a man like that? 

But, taking that next step is scarier than Clark wants to admit. It's easy to tell himself that he wants Bruce, that perhaps the mild crush on his teammate-slash-not-quite-friend might be a little more than simple animal attraction. But it's another thing entirely to lay himself bare at Bruce's feet, to give Bruce his slightly cracked heart and ask him not to break it further. 

As always, where Bruce is concerned, he has more questions than answers. 

When he finally steps foot in the kitchen, Mom takes one look at him, and shoves a plate full of mixed-berry pie his way and urges him to sit, the way she always used to do when he'd had a problem at school he couldn't solve. 

"What is it?" she asks, sitting beside him at the table.

He pokes his fork at the pie. "It's – you'll think it's silly."

She gives him a no-nonsense smile. "Let me be the judge of that."

He sighs, and gives in, the way he always does. (But not before taking a big bite – it is his favorite, after all.) "If I...if I wanted..." He very studiously does not look in his mother's direction, "would you think it's weird if I asked Bruce out?"

She straightens, but her voice is mild when she responds. "You mean, on a date?"

"Maybe?" He risks a quick peek at her. She doesn't look so much shocked or upset as she does just plain lost. He knows how she feels. He feels like he's been lost ever since he'd come back.

"Why would I think that's weird?" she asks, after a minute. "If it's something you want, there's no harm in it."

"You don't think it's too fast?" He glances at her again. "Shouldn't I be concentrating on me or whatever it is I'm supposed to do?"

Her gaze softens, and she leans in to press a kiss to his temple. "Baby boy, you're allowed to move on and live your life. You've got a second chance here, and it'd be a shame to spend it staying stuck in one place."

She's got a point – but then, she almost always does. "I guess you're right."

"Let me ask _you_ something." She takes his chin in hand, and fixes him with a stern look. "Does Bruce make you happy?"

Does he? Clark's not sure. The depth of what he knows about Bruce could fit into a thimble, with plenty of room left over. Shouldn't relationships be built on trust and knowledge and similar mindsets, similar interests? And it's not like Bruce is going to make things easy – trying to coax any sort of personal detail out of him is like trying to punch a tornado with one hand tied behind his back. 

On the other hand, it's not like Bruce _doesn't_ share. And every new bit of information he's uncovered about Bruce has only deepened his curiosity. Every morsel Bruce has given him has only intensified his craving to know more, to _know_ Bruce, inside and out. And that has to count for something, right?

"I think he could," he offers, with a helpless shrug. "I think...well, as odd as it sounds, I think we'd be good for each other. I mean," he adds, on a rueful laugh, "I think he'll drive me completely crazy, but I also think I wouldn't want it any other way."

"You do have a type," his mom tells him. 

"Brilliant, headstrong and stubborn?" Clark guesses, with a wry grin. 

"Not quite," she says, with her own smile. "But Bruce is a lot like Lois - obsessed with the truth and with leaving the world a better place than how they found it."

"I'm not looking to replace Lois," he states. And maybe, before, he wouldn't have looked at Bruce twice (alright, maybe he would have _looked_ , he thinks, remembering the night they'd met and how the sight of Bruce had knocked him for a loop), but this is now. And he and Bruce are different people.

She pats his hand. "As long as you understand that, there's no harm in seeing where something with Bruce might lead," she tells him. 

"I guess not." He curls himself around her, grateful to his core than she and Dad had been the ones to find him all those years ago. He couldn't ask for better parents. "I love you."

"I love you too, son." She squeezes his waist, then grins up at him. "Now, what are you going to do about Bruce?"

"Lois suggested I make him dinner. At his place," he adds. 

"Sounds like a fine start to me," she says, and kisses his cheek. "But I'm going to insist I be the one to make dessert."

Yeah, he's lucky alright. In so many ways that have nothing to do with his abilities or gifts.

***

Well, maybe, he'd spoken a little too soon, he thinks, as he stands in the Batcave (thanks, Barry) in front of Alfred Pennyworth a day later, desperately, shamefully, wishing for any sort of emergency so he can escape those piercing, far-too-knowing hazel eyes.

"Mr. Kent," Alfred intones, as he straightens from where he'd been using a screwdriver to tighten of one of Bruce's cowls. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Every mellifluous word is perfectly polite, but Clark gets the message loud and clear: _You shouldn't be here without Bruce's permission_. "It's Clark," he says, even though he knows it's a futile gesture. "And I, um, I need a favor."

One of Alfred's eyebrows shoots eloquently up to his hairline. "And what favor would that be?"

He could fly away right now, and still have maybe a shred of dignity. But then, Bruce would find out he'd talked to Alfred and would want to know why, and, well, Clark's definitely not ready for that conversation yet. 

He offers what he hopes is a disarming smile. "I...well, I'd like to make Bruce dinner one night, um, here at the lake house." He points up, then realizes how stupid that must look – _of course Alfred knows where the lake house is, for Pete's sake_ – and hurriedly shoves his hands in his pockets to try to save himself further embarrassment. "So, I was...well, I was wondering if there's a particular night he's free or...if there's a particular time he goes out on patrol or –"

"Be here tomorrow evening at seven."

Clark rocks back on his heels, nonplussed at Alfred's easy acquiescence. "That easy?"

Alfred's lips twitch as he picks his screwdriver back up. "Your mother may have already informed me of your plans."

"My..." Clark's teeth click when he snaps his mouth shut. Of _course_ his mother had talked to Alfred. 

Alfred bends his head back to his task, gnarled fingers still nimble and quick as he sets another tiny screw in place. "It's good you're trying, you know," he says. "Master Wayne...he could use someone like you."

"He could?" Clark asks, feeling very out of his depth.

"Yes," Alfred says, and glances up at him with something that Clark could only describe as approval. "Someone who reminds him what it is to be human."

Clark flushes, and barely resists the urge to scuff his feet across the ground. "I think Bruce is plenty human," he says, then frowns, turning his head, as Diana comes into view. He hadn't even heard her approach (and he's not sure if he's more terrified or impressed by it.)

Maybe it's the same sort of gift that allows her to waltz into the Cave without any of the alarms going off. Bruce has mentioned more than once that none of his security measures have worked on her. (Clark also thinks Bruce hasn't really tried that hard, either. He and Diana may be polar opposites, but it's clear there's a deep-seated affection between them. Something else Clark had missed while he'd been gone.)

"Bruce would argue, most vociferously, that he is barely human most of the time," she says, as she side-steps one of the worktables. Her smile is warm and welcoming and more than a little conspiratorial. "It's one of his more endearing qualities."

Alfred huffs out a fond laugh. "Endearing is not precisely the term I'd use," he says, not looking remotely surprised that she's here. Maybe Alfred had invited her.

"Ah, but you are not me," Diana teases, bussing a kiss to Alfred's cheek before turning to Clark. "So I hear you're finally going on a date with Bruce."

"It's just dinner, not a...wait, how did you even know about this?" Clark asks, suspicious. 

Diana's eyes twinkle when she grins. "I have my ways."

"Please don't tell me my mom told you, too." At this rate, she's probably posted it on Facebook.

"Like I said, I have my ways." It's clear Diana's laughing at him. "You will be fine."

"Easy for you to say," he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face, and wishing, not for the first time, that he was the sort of person who could ever be content with the simple life. 

"I happen to agree with Ms. Prince," Alfred says. "You have a charm all your own. Use that to your advantage."

"Sure," Clark says, faintly. "Because Bruce is so susceptible to charm."

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Kent," Alfred tells him, with a secretive smile that Clark thinks is supposed to be reassuring, but only succeeds in making Clark feel queasy.

"Would you like to spar?" Diana asks, gently. "It might do you some good to get your mind off of things."

"Why not, maybe you can beat some sense into me," Clark mutters, darkly, over Diana's delighted laughter.

She pats his forearm. "I promise you, if you are just yourself, Bruce will not be able to resist you."

She sounds so sincere. And, Clark reasons, she and Alfred definitely know Bruce far better than he does. If they have faith in him, who is he to argue. "Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. "Okay."

***


	7. Chapter 7

He's got this, he's got this, he's _got_ this. Diana and Alfred have faith in him. His mom and Lois have faith in him. And he's Superman. Symbol of hope to the world. Making dinner for Bruce should be a piece of cake, right?

Right?

Which, of course, does nothing to quell the butterflies in his stomach as he knocks on the front door of the lake house, cradling a bag of groceries and one of Mom's pies in one hand.

"You're early," Alfred says, in clear approval, as he ushers Clark inside.

"Yeah, I just...thought I'd get a head start," Clark replies, following Alfred into the kitchen. There are various pots and dishes already on the island.

"I took the liberty of setting out everything you'd need."

"Ah, thanks, Alfred," Clark says. "That's...very kind." And saves him from having to rummage around for the right thing. 

Clark busies himself with unpacking the groceries and takes stock, mentally girding himself for all possible outcomes. Bruce may not want company, he could hate Clark's cooking, he may not be interested in pursuing anything romantic or sexual, he might kick Clark off the team, he could –

"Master Wayne gets that same furrow when he's thinking too hard, you know," Alfred observes, cutting into Clark's thoughts.

"What furrow?" 

"The one you have right now." Alfred nimbly plucks the bottle of wine from Clark's unresisting grip. "I won't presume to know your thoughts, but if I may offer a word of advice?"

Clark offers a weak smile. "Please."

"Master Wayne is a man intimately acquainted with futility. With the dark underbelly of society and all of the ways men hurt each other, just because they can," Alfred says, with a small, sad smile. "All of those years fighting crime...they've hardened him." 

"And yet, he sings lullabies to small children and supports a medical facility single-handedly and visited my mom while I was gone and...take that painting he did, the one in the hallway..." Clark spreads his hands out, because he's got a pretty good idea about what Alfred's trying to tell him. "I mean...he can't be _that_ immune to the beauty of life and create something like that. Right?"

"Ah, you noticed." Alfred beams at him, pleased. Clark has the feeling he's passed a test – an important one – when Alfred nods. "Well, unless you need anything else, I'll be off." 

"No, I think I'm good," Clark tells him, with his own smile. "Thank you, Alfred."

"No, Mr. Kent, thank _you_ ," he says, and leaves Clark, a virtual stranger, alone in Bruce's house.

Clark isn't about to let that show of trust go to waste. 

"Right," he says out loud to himself. "Let's do it."

He loses himself in the rhythm of chopping and mixing, humming along to the classical music piping through the speakers, and tries to push everything else out of his mind. He's committed himself to trying, so the least he can do is give himself a chance to succeed. Thirty minutes later, he's pulled the salmon out of the oven to cool, and is blanching the kale before he heats it for the salad when he hears the front door open.

"Whatever it is you're cooking, Clark, it smells amazing!"

 _Showtime_ , Clark tells himself, quelling the resurgent butterflies, and walks into the living room. Bruce is unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt, and loosening his tie. (Clark may or may not take an extra second to appreciate the view.) "It should only be about..." He stops, as Bruce's earlier words catch up to him. "Wait, how'd you know it was me cooking and not Alfred?" he asks.

Bruce just arches an imperious eyebrow. "I'm Batman."

He says it so seriously that it takes Clark a moment to see the way Bruce's eyes are twinkling. "Alfred told you I was coming over, didn't he."

"The Gotham Bat never reveals his sources," Bruce replies, with a quick wink that absolutely does not wreck Clark's equilibrium in any way, shape or form. "So, what's for dinner?"

"Um..." It takes Clark a second to process the question. "It's...salmon over warm kale salad. I tried to keep it simple," he says. "I didn't think you'd appreciate a heavy meal before going off on patrol."

"Sounds delicious," Bruce says, and walks over to the bar, lifting one of the decanters. "Do you want a drink?"

"I...well..." Clark gestures towards the kitchen "...I brought wine." Had agonized over it for an hour, in fact. He'd done enough research online that he's pretty sure he's at least a mild expert in the best wines that pair with salmon. "It's a Gamay."

"Bold choice, I approve," Bruce says, and Clark all but sags in relief. "Let's save it for dinner."

"Um, okay." Clark walks over to the bar. "In that case, I'll have whatever you're having."

Bruce pours them both a glass of scotch – this time, Clark can taste notes of honey and raisins and nuts. "Very smooth," he comments, impressed. "Creamy, almost, but with a hint of spice. Aged in port barrels, right?"

"Perceptive. You've got a good palette," Bruce observes, raising his glass to his lips. "I'd love to run some tests someday, figure out how your taste buds are different than a human's."

Clark shrugs and takes another sip. "Sure, whenever you want."

"You'd let me?" There's surprise in Bruce's voice, and more than a little caution. Like he's not sure he's heard Clark correctly.

"Of course I would," Clark replies, and going on instinct, steps forward and places a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I trust you."

Bruce's lashes lower to half-mast, the length of them almost absurd as he glances at Clark from under them. "I'm not sure I've done anything to deserve it," he says, soft and serious, "but thank you. It means a lot."

Clark licks dry lips, the spike of want spearing through him painful in its intensity. It's an effort not to close the distance between them, to tug gently on Bruce's lower lip with his teeth and see if he can get Bruce's lashes to flutter in a far more pleasurable manner. His voice is rough-edged when he speaks. "I'm not sure exactly what I've done to earn yours, so...I guess we're even."

"No, I don't think we are." Bruce sets his glass on the bar, and maybe it's Clark's imagination, but he could swear Bruce's glance drifts ever so slightly to his lips.

"We are," Clark assures him, and sways forward, already anticipating the feel of Bruce's mouth against his, when Bruce jerks back as if scalded. Clark stumbles before he rights himself, and then winces. "Sorry," he says, carefully setting his tumbler next to Bruce's. He can feel the hot blush of embarrassment work its way across his cheeks. "That was...I think maybe I should go."

Before he humiliates himself further. Before Bruce says something cutting – or worse, lets him down gently. He's not sure he could handle pity, not when he'd thought –

"Clark, wait." 

He _could_ leave, he tells himself, and there's nothing Bruce can do to stop it. He could be out the door and across the world – across the solar system – in the time it would take Bruce to say another word. It's only the thought of the disappointment on his mom's face – and the one on Alfred's – that keeps him in place. 

When he opens his eyes, Bruce is staring at him intently, like he's searching for something. But his face is as closed off as ever, inscrutable to the last. Which is an odd sort of comfort, Clark thinks. For the first time he can remember, he doesn't want to know what Bruce is thinking.

Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs, the sound coming from deep within him. And when he speaks, he sounds exhausted. "Listen, I...I'm flattered, I am, but...I don't want to hurt you."

Clark scoffs, the sound ugly and raw even to his own ears. "I don't need you to patronize me. I'm a big boy, I can handle rejection."

He's hurt and more than a little disappointed, he won't lie, but he should have known better than to think he had a shot. How could he have been foolish enough to think that Bruce would want this? Would want _him_? They're far too different, move in such disparate worlds. Under normal circumstances, a man like Clark Kent wouldn't be let within a thousand yards of Bruce Wayne.

"It's not..." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Clark can't ever recall a time when he's seen Bruce looking this uncomfortable inside his own skin. "It's not rejection, it's –"

"Not rejection?" Clark can feel the familiar anger building inside him, and he welcomes it. Anything is better than the pain. "Are you _trying_ to send me mixed signals, or is this just some weird, innate quality you have?"

"I don't want to _hurt_ you." Bruce's voice is low now, fevered, the look on his face begging Clark to...what, Clark isn't entirely sure. Agree with him? Understand him? 

"If you don't want me, that's fine, but –"

"Of course I fucking want you!" Bruce snaps, effectively stopping Clark in his tracks. "That's the problem."

"You...I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Clark asks, now completely lost. "You what?"

Bruce's lips turn up, the smile wry. "Would you like me to call Diana? I can swear on her lasso if it'll make you feel better," he offers. 

"No, it's alright. I believe you." Clark rocks back on his heels. Then he picks up his glass and drains it in one gulp, letting the burn of the alcohol clear his throat. Not for the first time, he wishes he could get drunk. "So...just so I have this right. You want me, I want you, and that's a problem, why?"

"Like I said, I don't want to hurt you," Bruce repeats, slower this time, like that will help any of this make more sense. "And if we do this, I will."

"Do...what is it exactly, that we're doing?" Clark asks, probing now, because he'll be damned if he makes another assumption where Bruce is concerned. 

But Bruce, predictably, doesn't rise to the bait. "Don't play coy, it doesn't suit you." 

Clark's gaze drops, then he swallows. "I...I don't know what you want me to say here."

"You don't have to say anything." Bruce lets out another soft sigh. He looks so tired, tired and lonely, and so lost that Clark aches – all over, right down to his bones – just watching him. "Just know that I'm sorry for everything I put you through, for everything I did, and I know I'm not –"

" _Bruce_. Just...enough, okay. Stop with the self-flagellation. It's _not_ your fault I died." Somehow, finally saying the word is freeing, gives him the courage to take a chance, and take a step forward. "I seem to remember telling you – not that long ago – that you don't have to apologize."

"You're right, you did," Bruce says, and Clark is a seasoned reporter, able to quickly read body language and to pick up on the subtle, unspoken clues people so often unwittingly let slip. But right now, he can't read Bruce at all.

"So why are you?" he asks.

"Why are you here?" Bruce counters, pouring himself another fingerful of scotch.

Clark's brows come together. Is Bruce baiting him? Testing him? "Pretty sure it's obvious," he answers, slowly.

"Humor me." It's not a request.

"Okay," Clark says, slowly drawing out the word. "I'm making us dinner. Mom baked a pie. I thought...well, it'd be nice for us to get to know each other."

"Why?"

"Why would I want to get to know you better?" Clark asks, mystified. " _Is_ this a test?"

"If you want," Bruce replies, shrugging. But the tense line of his shoulders belies his easy tone.

"Alright, I'll play along." Clark has no idea what is going through Bruce's mind, but he gets the distinct impression that, if he leaves now, he'll have lost his chance forever. And that's not a risk he's willing to take. "You fascinate me. You've fascinated me from the start. All of your knowledge, all of these skills, all of the ways you help people, and yet you refuse to take anything for yourself. To take any _one_ for yourself."

"And you want to be that person?" Bruce asks, his voice now gravely and raw.

"Well, I'd like to be," Clark replies, honestly, because at this point, he figures he's got nothing else to lose. "But that's up to you." 

"And it doesn't bother you that I've hurt people and enjoyed it? That I've hurt _you_?" Bruce asks, motioning towards him. "I keep Kryptonite on me at all times, just in case. I have contingency plans to incapacitate Diana and Arthur if needed, and ones for Victor and Barry. I'm paranoid and distrustful and emotionally stunted and Alfred would tell you – correctly, I might add – that I am unhealthily addicted to being The Batman. I'm not a good person, Clark...hell, most days, I'm not much of a person at all."

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Clark argues. "I mean, I won't lie, your paranoia is...well, it's a bit much sometimes, but it's not a deal-breaker."

"And what about the fact that I'm a criminal and a –" Bruce starts, but Clark doesn't give him a chance to finish.

"Look, if you don't want to figure out –" he shrugs, unsure how to phrase it "– what we could be – just tell me. But don't turn me down out of some weird sense of misplaced guilt or because you don't think you deserve something good in your life. Because you do."

Bruce is silent for a painfully long time. Long enough Clark starts to think he's pushed too hard, been too honest, backed Bruce into a corner. He's trying to come up with the words to let them both off the hook so they can each have some shred of dignity in place the next time they're together when Bruce lets out a long, careful breath. 

"How does anyone say no to you," he murmurs, so soft it barely stirs the air, but he knows – he has to know – that Clark can hear it as clearly as if Bruce had shouted it.

Clark feels the first faint flutter of hope start to beat in his chest. "Well, I'd really like it if you didn't. Say no, that is," he clarifies, because he's not going to give Bruce any wiggle room.

"I don't think saying no to you has been an option since the moment we met," Bruce admits, with a rueful grin that blessedly reaches his eyes. "But I should warn you now, before we...this isn't going to end well."

"Again with the mixed signals," Clark says, shaking his head. "You know, for a playboy, you're really bad at saying yes," he teases, and lifts his hand to trail his fingers along the sharp cut of Bruce's jawline. "And here I thought you had a reputation."

"You matter," Bruce replies, simply, and Clark's heart just _melts_ , right into a puddle at Bruce's feet.

"Oh," he whispers, every bit of breath punched right out of his lungs. 

"But I also want us walking in with eyes wide open on how this will end," Bruce continues, still so determined to throw cold water on Clark's emotions. "Because we both know it will end badly."

"No, we don't know," Clark tells him. "Unless your superpower is seeing into the future?"

"Funny." Bruce smiles, but it's far too sad for Clark's liking. "I may be only human, but I know people. I know _me_. I'll drag you down into the abyss eventually, and when that day happens, I want you to get out. I swear right now, I won't hold it against you."

Clark's lips twitch. Bruce is impossible, stubborn, willfully self-destructive, and so self-sacrificing it's a wonder he hasn't suffocated under the weight of it. And Clark is stupidly, dizzyingly, crazy about him. 

"Breaking us up before we've even really gotten together," he comments, with a tsk. "Sounds very nihilistic. And like so much bullshit," he adds, because he may as well get right to the point. "Look, I know this won't be easy. But my parents taught me to fight for something if I think it's worth it. And I think this is worth it. _You're_ worth it."

"I've got a lot of baggage," Bruce warns, but his voice has lost some of the conviction it had had earlier. 

"I can lift planets, I think I'll be okay," Clark says, with a triumphant smile. If Bruce is reduced to pendantic arguments, he's already on board. Bruce _wants_ this. He wants _Clark_. They can deal with everything else as it comes up.

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Because you're not the only one with demons, you know," he says, then continues, confessing his own truth. It's past time Bruce understands he's not alone, and never was. "You know, Lois, she told me once that she wasn't sure if I could be me and...be with her at the same time. That the cost of it...well, that loving her came with a price I might not be able to pay." 

Bruce's look is commiserate. "I had an ex-girlfriend once tell me the same thing. That happiness wasn't a possibility for Bruce Wayne as long as Gotham needed The Batman."

"She knew about you?" Clark asks, surprised. 

"Yeah, she knew." Bruce sighs, soul-deep and weary. "And most days, I think she's got a point."

"I think she's wrong. Your ex. Her and Lo, they're both wrong." He cups Bruce's jaw now, thumb running along the sharp angle of bone. Revels in the roughness of Bruce's facial hair and the heat of his skin. Inhales that earthy, woodsy scent that's all Bruce, and shivers in anticipation. "I think we're allowed to have something for us, or else what are we fighting for?"

"So no one else has to suffer," Bruce says, although his eyes slip closed, and he arches his chin up, baring it for Clark's touch. "That's why we fight."

"That's part of it, sure," Clark agrees. "But without love and laughter and happiness – and great burgers with avocado –" he adds, just to see Bruce smile "– to remind us that the world can be a bright and beautiful place, then you lack the proper context." He brushes a light kiss across Bruce's forehead, right between those furrowed brows. "That's what you give me."

Bruce's cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink. "Clark..."

"I mean it."

"I know. That's the problem."

"Well, I never claimed to fight fair." Clark is sure he has to sound as giddy as he feels. "I think I've finally figured you out. You frustrate and bewilder and annoy me, but you're also one of the bravest people I've ever met. You're brilliant and you care so much about people and you've spent your whole life trying desperately to make Gotham a better place, and you're frankly one of the most attractive men I've ever seen and I would very much like to see where this thing might lead. If that's something you want."

So much of Bruce's life is a carefully constructed lie, an acting job worthy of the greatest performer on any stage, every inch of him cultivated and curated, every minute of his life in service to his cause. The number of people allowed beyond the veil to the truth simmering underneath the surface could be counted on one hand.

And somehow, inexplicably, by some miracle, Clark is one of those people. Bruce may not have gone about it in a normal manner, but he's tried, in his very Bruce-like way, on so many different occasions, to show how much trust he has in Clark. It's humbling, it's exhilarating, it's the biggest rush outside of flying at supersonic speeds. And it's something Clark will never, ever take for granted.

"Promise me," Bruce says, quietly. "Tell me you know what you're getting into and –"

"I promise I want this," Clark vows, then slides his hand up to cup Bruce's cheek. "Now, is it alright if I kiss you finally?"

Bruce doesn't reply, but he does jerk out a nod. Clark allows himself a flickering smile in relief, then his lips are on Bruce's, feather-light, demanding nothing. And Bruce, after a second of stillness, shivers and returns it, opening his mouth on a delicate sigh.

Clark can discern the faint remnants of scotch on Bruce's tongue, but under it, there's something more elusive, raw, something he's been craving without ever having had it before. The soft rasp of Bruce's bristles scrapes across his chin like sandpaper. The lips against his own conform to him completely, the kiss deepening until they're both flush together, their bodies straining towards each other, desperate and greedy for more.

Clark only tears away when he can feel Bruce struggle for breath. Right, humans need oxygen, that's important to remember. "Bruce, I..." He falters, stops. Now that they're here, now that they're _doing_ this, he's not sure where to start. He's imagined this moment so many times, but none of his fantasies have left him tongue-tied, aching and yearning to his very bones from something as simple as a kiss.

Bruce just smiles, and tangles their fingers together, the touch grounding Clark to the earth. "Relax," he says, and gives Clark one of those under-the-lashes half-smiles. " _This_ is supposed to be the fun part, remember."

The laughter that bubbles up surprises him, loosens a knot from somewhere deep inside his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"Come on," Bruce says, and tugs on Clark's hand, the meaning unmistakable.

Clark goes, following Bruce as willingly as always, but he figures one of them should at least remember why Clark is ostensibly here. "Dinner will get cold," he warns, thankful he'd at least turned off the oven and wrapped the salmon.

Bruce shrugs and keeps walking. "I don't care if you don't."

Clark really doesn't.

Bruce leads him into the bedroom and the opulent king-sized bed. Plenty of room for both of them, Clark thinks, plenty of room for all of the things he wants to do to Bruce, all of the things he wants Bruce to do to him. And, then he stops thinking altogether as Bruce strips out of his clothing, economical and swift, each piece littering the floor until he's once again completely, beautifully naked. Sun-bronzed skin contrasting with the white of his scars, all of that coiled power and innate grace on display, a work of art for Clark's eyes alone.

His mouth goes bone dry at the sight. "Wow."

"You've seen me naked," Bruce points out, indulgent and amused.

"Yeah, but now it's different," Clark agrees, and lets his gaze linger. " _Now_ I get to look."

"Should I pose or something?" Bruce asks, clearly teasing, but Clark doesn't smile in return. Part of him is itching to explore, to finally get his hands and lips on every inch of Bruce's body, but another part thinks he could look at Bruce the rest of the night and be content with just that. 

"The first time I saw you shirtless, I thought about Apollo. The Sun God of Greek mythology," Clark clarifies, although he knows Bruce knows who he's talking about.

Bruce tilts his head, frowning. "Shouldn't that be you?"

"That would be a little narcissistic, don't you think?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"I meant –"

"I know what you meant," Clark says. "And I meant what I said, too."

Bruce's grin is a slow unfurling of the sunrise. "Well, if scars do it for you, then who am I to argue."

" _You_ do it for me, Bruce. Just you," Clark says, and finally allows himself to move into Bruce's space until he's so close, a slip of paper couldn't fit between them.

Bruce grabs the back of Clark's head and yanks him in for a hard kiss, nipping on Clark's bottom lip with sharp teeth. "Less talking, more of your clothes coming off," Bruce growls, impatient now, and Clark can hear the rush of blood in Bruce's veins, can taste the subtle notes of ozone and musk in the air. 

"Whatever you say," he says, and noses in, kissing Bruce again, this one slow and impossibly sweet. 

And Bruce is right there with him, pressing close, strength to strength, lips against his, asking permission with the flicker of his tongue. Clark opens his mouth, answering with a low moan, and lets go, lets Bruce in. Soft lips traverse from his mouth across his cheek to his eyebrows, and Clark huffs out a hitched breath at the gentleness of the gesture, so at odds with how hard they both are. 

Bruce murmurs something indistinct, then moves his hands up, unbuttoning Clark's shirt, taking the time to glide cool fingers across Clark's chest and stomach, stopping to trace each rib, the concave hollow at the top of his abs, following the matted trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. "Beautiful," he whispers reverently, and for the first time since Clark's rebirth, he feels like he's right where he belongs. 

Then Bruce tugs at his zipper, and Clark stumbles as he steps out of his jeans, his normal grace deserting him as lust and need take over.

"Careful," Bruce admonishes, laughter warm in Clark's ear. "Don't want you breaking anything before we get started."

"Ass," Clark replies, fondly, and presses the tips of his fingers along the muscled planes of Bruce's back. "Latissimus dorsi," he murmurs, trailing over solid muscle and bone, then down to the hollow of lean hips, "leading to the obliques, which rest over the ilium..."

"So you _were_ paying attention," Bruce says, lips parting on a sigh when Clark traces the thick vein on the underside of Bruce's cock.

"You have _no_ idea," Clark tells him, and cups the heavy, warm weight of Bruce's scrotum in his palm. 

" _Fuck..._ " Bruce groans, and rubs against him, sleek and nimble and utterly _perfect_. 

Clark ducks in for another kiss, another taste, an addict now. "I take it that feels good?"

"God yes, _yes_ ," Bruce hisses, and grinds against him, slow heat mixed with desire. He bites at Clark's lower lip, harder this time, as his own hands start roaming and mapping Clark's body, memorizing every inch he can reach by touch. Like there might be a quiz later and he wants to ace it, the way he does everything else. "Wanted this for so long..."

"Me too...please," Clark begs, and moans, low and heartfelt, when Bruce slithers gracefully to his knees and wraps tight lips around the head of his cock. 

He looks down, breath catching in his throat. Bruce is so beautiful like this, all of his considerable focus and attention on Clark, like Clark's pleasure is Bruce's only goal in life, and of course, of _course_ , Bruce is amazingly good with his mouth. And Bruce's tongue fluttering along the underside of his cock is the best sort of torture, an exquisite pain Clark never ever wants to end.

"Jesus, Bruce," he breathes, barely aware he's even speaking out loud. When Bruce releases him with a loud pop and slides back up along his body, he can't tear his gaze from Bruce's lips, red and bruised and full. It's a very good look on him.

Then Bruce flicks his tongue over his lower lip and lets out a pleased hum. "You taste like sunlight," he says, and Clark just _has_ to kiss him again for that, has to keep kissing him until they're both out of breath.

His hands are clumsy, rough, when he starts pushing Bruce towards the bed, and he almost loses his footing – again – because he can't keep his eyes off of Bruce long enough to look where he's going. Not that he thinks anyone would blame him, not when faced with the acres of golden, beautiful skin and the rippling muscles and coiled grace that make up Bruce's incredible body. A body forged to wage war, a body built for keeping the peace. 

A warm breeze is blowing from the open sliding glass door. Clark can smell lake water as they finally tumble onto the sheets. A hand glides along his flank as he trails his fingers across strong shoulders. Their legs tangle, hairs rubbing together, and Clark can feel the steady thump-thump of Bruce's heart beating against his own, can hear the rush of oxygen filling Bruce's lungs. The hands on him are strong, work-rough, press a lot harder than he's been used to, but it still feels amazing.

He can't quite believe that they're actually doing this, but he's smart enough not to overthink it. They're here now, and that's what counts. Clark follows the goosebumps along Bruce's arm – stopping at his wrist, the crook of his elbow, the muscled line between his bicep and triceps – to his shoulder, collarbone, taking his time as he finally gets to touch every puckered scar, every faded bruise, and mark upon Bruce's flesh.

"Thought about this, so many times," he confesses, his voice thick with arousal "...you, like this...getting to taste you like this..."

"Have you now?" Bruce asks, gratifyingly breathless, each graze of his fingers along Clark's body sparking already over-heated nerves.

"Mmhmm," Clark says, and wraps his fist lightly over Bruce's cock, tracing the veins and ridges, smearing pre-come across the tips of his fingers. "Couldn't get the image of you naked out of my mind."

Bruce's eyes glitter with something dark and dangerous when he smiles. "Good," he says, the sound a purr against Clark's lips, and his tongue slides along Clark's before he can make a reply. And, honestly, talking's overrated, anyway.

Bruce's hands sweep over him, callused and slow, and he follows the path with his lips, igniting a thousand small fires under Clark's skin. A soft tongue darts at his nipples, gentle teeth rake over his ribs, indistinct words are murmured against his abs, and it's easy enough to lie back. To enjoy the simple pleasure of Bruce's mouth on his body, worshipping and claiming in equal measure.

"You're awfully good at this," he remarks, then jumps when Bruce's teeth find a sensitive spot along his hip bone, stubble abrading his skin.

"You're not the only one who's thought about this, remember," Bruce says, spider-walking his fingers down Clark's stomach and stopping just above his groin. 

Clark places his hand over Bruce's, guides it down to where he wants it most. "It's not nice to tease, you know..." 

"Should've guessed you'd be pushy," Bruce mock-complains, even as he closes his fingers around Clark's cock, and begins a slow, maddening rhythm.

"Come up here already," he rasps, and tugs gently on the back of Bruce's head to bring him up for a kiss, shuddering each time Bruce's fist tightens over him, each time he slides up and down.

But as good as this is, as reluctant as he is to lose those clever fingers, he wants to taste Bruce even more. Wants, with a visceral need, to see if he can make Bruce lose some of his vaulted control. "My turn," he says, and wastes no more time pushing Bruce to the pillows and slithering down until he's lying comfortably between Bruce's thighs.

He opens his lips, tongue flickering over the slit of Bruce's cock, catching on small droplets of pre-come. The hot, heavy tang fills his mouth as he lazily bobs his head, and he's sorely out of practice at doing this, but Bruce doesn't seem to care. At least, not if the way the moans and bucking of his hips are anything to go by. Clark hums a little on the next slide down, the sound vibrating along Bruce's length, back into Clark, and he slips when Bruce thrusts up, chokes a little.

"You okay?" Bruce's concerned voice floats down to him, gentle fingers brushing across his cheeks.

"Yeah," Clark answers, lifting his head long enough to smile. "Just...been awhile."

"No complaints," Bruce says, and, before Clark can lower his head to get back to work, Bruce twists around until his face is level with Clark's crotch. When Clark blinks and stares down, Bruce just grins. "I trust you have no objections."

"Uh..." Clark stammers, just as Bruce digs his hand into Clark's hip and parts his lips, his tongue flat along the underside of Clark's cock as he takes Clark deep. And, well, no one's ever accused Clark of not knowing a good thing when he's got it.

The angle this way is a little weird, with both of them on not-quite on their sides, but it feels so good Clark doesn't care. Bruce's lips are obscenely tight over him, and he keeps doing some wild butterfly thing with his tongue that Clark tries his best to emulate, but all he can mostly do is moan around Bruce and try to move as best he can. Every time he takes a breath, his torso sticks to Bruce's skin, sending heated shocks along a body already clamoring and aching for more.

He starts to float off the bed, and goes with it, twisting them slightly so Bruce is above him, fully supported by Clark's weight. He grabs hold of Bruce's calves to hold him steady, and tilts his head a little more so he can get back to the important business of sucking Bruce off, feasting on every moan and sigh. Bruce, to his credit, only tenses for the briefest of moments before he relaxes, and starts that same, slow, maddening slide that scrambles every single one of Clark's brain cells.

Then one of Bruce's hands finds its way between Clark's thighs, cupping over his balls, and the shock of it explodes across his senses like a bomb. He tries to give a warning, but Bruce pushes his hips forward at that exact moment, and he swallows as much of Bruce's cock as he can instead, as Bruce's throat works, milking him dry.

Lassitude fills him, and his vision blurs as his limbs go numb. The first thick splash of come hits his throat, and some of it dribbles across his mouth and chin in spite of his best efforts, but he can't even manage the energy to do anything about it – it takes all of his focus to slowly lower them back to the bed.

He feels Bruce moving again, then warm lips dragging across his chin, and his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of Bruce licking up his own come, but Clark can't even get his eyes to open to enjoy the sight. "Don't think I can move," he mumbles instead, and manages to pat Bruce's ass once before his hand slides down, then to the mattress.

"That could be awkward," Bruce replies, sounding pleased and very smug. "Considering all the plans I have for you now that you're here."

Clark doesn't even bother to lift his head. However, he does at least pry his eyelids open. Bruce's smile is just this side of arrogant: his gaze is bright and clear, his cheeks flushed, lips shiny with spit and come, which shouldn't look as hot as it does. "Hmmm?"

Bruce laughs, richly amused. "How can you look this wholesome while you're naked and fucked out in my bed?" Before Clark can sputter out a response, Bruce rolls on top of him, solid warmth pinning him back to the mattress, as he stretches, all sinuous lethal grace and distraction. 

"I won't apologize for earlier," Bruce says, but Clark hears the vulnerability in his voice all the same.

"You wouldn't be you if you did," Clark replies, and rests his hands on Bruce's hips. "Although I'm not sure what you're not apologizing for, exactly."

"Testing you," Bruce says, quietly. "Pushing you. I just don't want there to be any lies between us."

"Bruce, I already know the mission comes first and last and always with you," Clark tells him. "And I know that because it's the same for me. Being Superman isn't just something I _do_ , it's who I _am_."

"Yes," Bruce agrees, looking relieved and pleased in equal measure. "That's it exactly."

"I _did_ tell you I had you figured out," he replies, with a grin and a light kiss to Bruce's jaw.

Bruce can only laugh, then gasp, as Clark's fingers start to trail down. "So soon?"

"You aren't the only one with plans," Clark says, nipping at the spot where his lips had just been, and they stop talking for a long, long while. 

***

The briefs hit him in the face, waking him from a dead sleep. "Wh-hmph?"

When he cracks his eyes open, he sees Bruce – in a tank top and shorts – standing at the foot of the bed. His teeth gleam white in the dark. "Get dressed," he says. "Meet me on the deck."

Less than a minute later, his own tee and briefs on, Clark steps out onto the deck and looks curiously at Bruce, who simply points up. The meteor shower above them is as unexpected as it is beautiful. 

"Oh," Clark murmurs, stunned. Part of him aches to fly out to meet them, to be part of the show, but the rest of him is content, just this once, to be a spectator. To look up at the stars, instead of taking his place among them.

He bumps shoulders with Bruce, companionable and close. "Thanks," he says, a moment later.

He doesn't need to look over to know Bruce is smiling. "You're welcome."

"You know," Clark says, draping his arm around Bruce's waist to pull him even closer, "if you're supposed to be my reward for coming back from the dead, I can't say I mind it too much."

Because, when he thinks about it – about living and dying and being reborn and debts and second chances and how he's changed, hopefully for the better – everything that's happened has brought him to this point. To this moment in time. To Bruce and the promise of what they could be, now that they're together. And maybe he's a romantic, but he wouldn't change a thing about anything that's come before.

"Clark..." Bruce says, and it sounds like a warning.

Clark nuzzles his jaw in apology. "Yeah, I know, the gallows humor is more you than me."

"That wasn't what I was going to say," Bruce says, surprising him.

"What were you going to say?"

Bruce's voice is a low hum in his ear. "That I've never been someone's reward before."

"Well, you are now." Clark lets out a contented sigh, and rests his temple against Bruce's. Feels the weight of him, human and _real_ , solid strength and fragile emotions all wrapped in an irresistible package.

"I want you to hear me," he says, lowering his voice until it's a secret for just the two of them. "Lo – Lois – she gave me faith that there are good people in this world." He pulls back, traces a path over Bruce's lips with a fingertip. "She gave me hope."

"I –" Bruce stops, shakes his head ruefully. "God, I wish I'd met you ten years ago. Back when I still had some modicum of optimism. But Gotham...it's worn me down too much for me to give myself to anyone, unfettered and whole."

"I don't want you, as you put it, unfettered and whole," Clark tells him, his gaze steady now. "I want you just like this, damaged and burnt out and still trying so hard, still suiting up and doing your job, even when you're tired or disillusioned. Because you give me a different kind of hope." He rests his hand right over Bruce's steady heartbeat, lets the warmth seep into him, as sustaining as the sun at high noon. "Because your hope isn't rooted in idealism or a higher justice, but in sweat and blood and sacrifice. You go out there, putting yourself on the line, night after night, because you believe you can make a difference."

"I used to."

"You still do," Clark says, confident. "You remind me of what the best of humanity is. And do you know what that makes me?"

"An idealistic idiot," Bruce replies, but his look soft and fond and _open_ , and Clark's heart tumbles all over again.

"I got you out of it so it must not be all bad," Clark says, dropping his thumb to the hollow of Bruce's throat.

"I could just be using you to test out my hypotheses on alien sex," Bruce says, with a shrug that belies the flush of arousal blooming across his chest.

"Lucky for me I'm an alien," Clark says, amiably, and leans in, brushes their lips together. "I guess I'll just have to volunteer my services until you're satisfied." 

He hopes that's not for a good, long time.

"You might be here awhile," Bruce mutters, echoing Clark's thoughts, as he shifts to bring them in closer contact. "I'm pretty thorough when I'm in scientist mode."

"Well, I _am_ Superman," Clark says, as their lips meet again. "The very model of selflessness."

"You're a super something alright."

"Super happy?" Clark guesses, smiling when Bruce groans in protest. "Super lucky? Super –"

Bruce just neatly sweeps Clark's feet out from under him, the move so smooth and fast that not even Clark could evade it. He lands flat on his back, the breath momentarily knocked out of him. 

"Too cheesy?" he asks, when he can speak again.

Bruce rolls his eyes, his body shaded silver in the moonlight. "Don't make me rethink this relationship already."

Clark full on beams up at him. "You just called this a relationship."

" _Clark..._ "

"Alright, puns are out, got it," Clark concedes, staring up at Bruce with what he's sure is a dopey grin. "But we both know I'm not the best at following orders, so if you _did_ want to shut me up..." He trails off meaningfully, knowing Bruce will take the hint.

Bruce just gazes down at him with an inscrutable expression, but then, the next instant, he's lying on top of Clark, and grinding their hips together. "Yeah," he says, and there's a wealth of meaning in just that one word, "I know exactly what to do."

"Show me," Clark says, and pulls Bruce down for a kiss that vibrates between them like a promise.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing artists: [Selofain](https://selofain.tumblr.com/) and [Crocco](https://carry-on-my-wayward-artblog.tumblr.com/)!!!!!! 
> 
> Link to Crocco's art [here](https://carry-on-my-wayward-artblog.tumblr.com/post/186566279599/second-part-of-superbatbigbang-art-for)!!!!
> 
> Link to Selofain's art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985224)!!!!!!!!
> 
> Also, my eternal thanks to [Steph](https://stephrc79.tumblr.com) for her kick-ass betas and advice!! She made the fic 10x better. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](https://brendaonao3.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for The Shape of My Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985224) by [Selofain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selofain/pseuds/Selofain)




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